


The Castle AU

by UnderTheFridge



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Chaos Primarchs Gone Wild, Horus has issues, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Explicit, Various Kinks, as in they are actually siblings this time, more incest than usual, there is a lot of blood though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:05:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 30,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4369532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ruler of the land of Cthonia is our favourite Emperor. <br/>He has three sons. Dorn, the cool-headed tactician. Guilliman, the diplomatic orator. Russ, the merry-maker. All is well with the empire. Any rumours that you may have heard about other children, failed and corrupted heirs that live as sadistic moral degenerates in a castle in the forest, are totally untrue.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ten more sons live in a castle in the forest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which we are introduced to treachery, and a traitor is introduced to a sharp object.

The prince was exquisite in every detail. The nobleman took time to linger on everything.

“I shall have to thank your brother, for lending you to me.”

“My brother doesn’t own me,” was the reply, laconic but with the slightest hint of ire. “No-one does.”

“Ah, surely there must be someone who makes a claim to this… magnificent kingdom?”

_Ferrus,_ was the thought that the other man could not see, _if that’s true of anyone, it’s Ferrus._

“Someone who can proudly call this body their own.”

“I should think that’s me. Seeing as I live in it.”

The nobleman chuckled lightly.

“Such a pretty thing you are, with such wit. I think I could find a host of uses for your tongue, if we had more time.”  
And with that sentence, he sealed his fate – not that it wasn’t sealed already.

The smile offered to him was luminous and completely insincere. He failed to notice the lies, hidden as they were behind a careful mask.

_There is no way he could have pleased as many as he claims. Bedded, maybe, but not pleased. He’s not even trying to attend to me._

“So snug a fit… am I your first?”

“Snug?” the prince hissed under his breath, “who would even say that?” He gave a reassuring stroke to the man’s cheek, and his ego. “No. But…perhaps I wish you had been.”

“Never fear, little one. I’ll spoil you for any other.”

_No, I meant that if you were my first, at least I wouldn’t know what I was missing._

“I don’t doubt that.”

_Stop pushing me against the headboard. Mediocre carvings of hunting scenes are not comfortable._

“Your strength is… admirable….”

“Is it, little one? Do I overwhelm you? Is this the way you like it? Rough… dominating… owning you….”

_Yes, as a matter of fact. But only with certain people, and you are neither of them._

“Please, I’d rather you didn’t pinch me,” he made it a soft, timid request rather than shouting it in the man’s face. It would be a disaster if this didn’t go to plan. And there was no way he was letting Horus’s scheme derail, if only as fair revenge for what was going on now.

“Not keen on pain, little one?”

_Oh yes. I lie while Ferrus slips needles through my skin – he has such skilful fingers. The pain is just on that edge of discomfort, so I can stay still, and just feel. The stab, the draw… the push and puncture on the other side…. A row of them down my flank, another on my thigh – not spilling a single drop of blood. By the time he’s finished, I’m drifting, floating… so high…._

_But you know nothing of that._

“I could teach you. I could get you to take it and love it – I could strike you and you would beg for more.”

_Charming. And you couldn’t._

_Get your hand off my neck. Only Curze is good at that._

“Ah, my sweet prince!”

_Nearly done already? By the gods!_

_Am I going to get anything out of this?_

“So wonderful of you to please me….”

_Oh, you’ve never seen me please someone. I could have you in a world of bliss as I fulfilled your every desire – but I won’t, because you’re a boorish fool._

“The way you take it…!”

_I’m not taking it. You’re giving it. And not very much either._

_No wonder your wife left for that woodsman._

_I hope Angron didn’t leave the good axe out in the rain again. He’s terrible for that, but none of the servants will tell him. Horus probably will…._

_Are we done?_

The nobleman lay, his great appetite sated, with the beautiful prince by his side. He stroked silky hair and wondered what it would be like to marry this one, to have him every day. And a new wife, of course… out here, where the law of Cthonia barely reached, who was to say a man couldn’t have both? Neither ceremony would be official, but that mattered little. He thought of the wedding night, and all the nights after, and it stirred his imagination if not his loins. Perhaps he wasn’t quite ready for another round – though it was certainly feasible.

He looked down and the prince’s dark eyes were fixed on him. He mistook the cold cunning in them for lust.

“What do you think, little one? Again?”

“I resent pet names.”

He sat up slightly, startled by the biting tone.

“Well… I’ll change it, if you like.”

“Change it to my proper title, and all will be forgiven.”

The nobleman chortled at that.

“If you say so, _your highness._ A prince and a harlot both, and equally good at each!” he was overcome with merriment, and closed his eyes briefly.

“Thank you,” the prince purred, using the moment to reach his hand beneath the pillow and retrieve the dagger there. “I have many talents.”

“And I’d like to see more of them before the night is through,” the nobleman laid a hand on him again. He smiled, though it was more a baring of teeth.

“Would you like to be party to one now?”

“Of course, my sweet.”

“I told you,” the prince said. “It’s ‘your highness’.”

The dagger was sharp enough to slice cleanly through the man’s most precious of parts – not his heart, or his throat. He screamed loud enough to wake the dead and stared in abject horror at his handsome assailant, still smiling and serene, holding the blood-streaked blade.

“Horus would like you to know that this is what happens to traitors of traitors,” the prince told him, standing and wiping the dagger on the bed-curtains. “You renounced the Emperor, which is perhaps fair, but you tried to deceive my brother – and Horus will always know, and he will always take revenge. And this is also on behalf of your wife.”

He began to dress himself. The nobleman writhed and keened on the bed in a manner that was incredibly gratifying, either maddened with pain or trying to locate that which had been lost.

“You’ll want to stop the bleeding as quickly as possible,” the prince added. “Don’t bother to look for it; the dogs will take notice well before any physician.”

He paused at the door, the image of perfection.

“And I don’t like being called ‘little’.”


	2. In which there is much cursing

"Oh, cruel majesty… for your selfishness and evil ways, I place a curse upon you and your house…. Forever and after, you shall -.”

“Wait a moment,” the Emperor said. “I’m already cursed. You can’t put another curse on me.”

The coven stopped in their tracks. Men and women stared uncomprehending from the hoods of dark robes.

“Unless you can summon the power required to override both my existing wards and the previous curse.”

Russ chuckled from behind him, and everyone took a step back.

“And like Leman here, I think it’s unlikely.”

He stepped into the circle and the sorcerous fire leapt and spat in response. Russ’s eyes narrowed.

“We… didn’t know about this, exalted lord Emperor.”

“Well, naturally. It’s a closely guarded Imperial secret. I’m sure you’ll find it within yourselves to keep it that way.”

There was general assent. The gathered witches and warlocks shuffled awkwardly, some of them bowing in the correct manner and others trying their best to become one with the shadows.

“My lord Emperor,” one ventured, “with the greatest of respect, erm… what was the original curse?”

“Now there’s a tale,” the Emperor said. He sat down on a log and extinguished a couple of black candles. “Since you’re all here, it’s a valuable lesson in the consequences of sorcery. Come, if you want to hear it. Leman, put your trousers back on. And someone stop that goat from escaping.”

The goat was settled by the fire, and the Emperor put his feet up on its back.

“By the way, that’s entirely the wrong sacrifice. If you want to invoke such magic, you need the blood of a powerful practitioner… or seven of you would have to give up a child. Not willing to do that, I assume? Quite admirable.”

“Some of them have run,” Russ growled from somewhere near his ear. “Should I retrieve them?”

“No, don’t worry.” The Emperor waved a hand. “If they want to flee my wrath, then so be it.” He looked around at the assembled faces, most of them somewhat ashen. “I should probably persecute those who plot against me, but it would never have worked – and it’s pure happenstance that we stumbled upon you anyway. Out here in the forest, in the dead of night, with the moon casting such a subtle, romantic glow….”

Russ cleared his throat.

“Ah yes, the original curse. Now this was the work of a sorcerer more powerful than any of you, or all of you – someone who could raise magic on his own without all the chanting and dusty old books. You might want to hide that book, by the way. I have a feeling it’s forbidden.”

Someone covered the offending tome with a cloth, and sneaked it into a bag.

“Not that you’ll be able to get much out of it anyway; the woman who wrote it was mad as a March hare. Notice that the pages are numbered backwards. And about a third is complete gibberish in an invented language… and she never finished some of the spells. There’s one where you’ll turn everyone within ten feet into an octopus… but only on a Tuesday and if their favourite colour happens to be green. Madness.

“Anyway, he was my brother. When our father died,” and there was a general murmur of ‘ _praise be to the God-Emperor_ ’, “and I took the throne, we had a falling-out. Something about the pursuit of knowledge. Malc didn’t like the direction I would take the Imperium in… and he wanted to be my chief advisor for the rest of time, and we had words. I’m not sure how it all started, to be quite honest – but that’s how most things get blown out of proportion. Nobody can quite remember what they were arguing about, but they keep doing it.

“And one thing led to another, and he cursed me to gain thirteen sons who would overthrow me and murder me one day. And then he left for the provinces and we have hardly spoken since.”

The goat munched on the edge of a robe.

“That’s about it, really.” The Emperor sighed and pulled his clothing from the animal’s teeth.

“My lord Emperor,” someone began, “with the greatest of humility, might I suggest that… you could just have fewer sons? Or some daughters?”

“Well, that’s what I thought – sorry, what’s your name?”

“Grandmaster Dark Mage Geoffrey of the Cult of the Horned Beast.”

“Well, Geoffrey, that’s what I thought at first. But my wives kept having babies, as they do, and I ended up with twelve. That’s when I stopped being so free with my royal seed, if you get the idea. I thought I was being smart with just the dozen.

“But while you and I might make a distinction between ‘official’ heirs – or at least those born in the royal chambers – and other offspring, a curse doesn’t. That’s why you have to be so careful with these things. You had the right approach to cursing me… but those sigils to curse my ‘house’, as in the family? Those are for my actual house. The Imperial Palace would suffer minor structural damage. Over a period of a hundred years. Not the intended outcome at all, I’m sure.”

“So… who was the thirteenth?”

“Well, a long time ago, I went through a somewhat rebellious phase, and I would escape my father’s clutches and flee into the forest… and there I met a wild woman, wandering between the trees in little more than rags. She was a werewolf, as it turned out, and the waning of the full moon had left her stranded in her human form, far from her home. Now don’t get ideas – she was most certainly human for what happened next. I’ll leave that to your imagination…. But she went, and I never encountered her again.

“And just as I thought I had evaded my brother’s malign prophecies, who should turn up but Russ here?” the Emperor put a jovial arm around the prince’s shoulders. “He was a wolf at the time, but recognised me for who I was. And when he transformed back into a human, I had to accept that here was my thirteenth son. I have a rough idea of where he fits in the birth order… but we have agreed that he cannot inherit the throne. That was down to H- to my eldest, before he made that spectacular cock-up. Now it’s Roboute. He’ll do, I suppose….”

Everyone stared into the fire for a long moment. Geoffrey adjusted his sacred headdress.

“So I’m just waiting for them to overthrow me. These three are alright, but the rest… well, you know that.”

“The Daemon Princes,” a witch whispered.

“Yes. I’m not quite sure what happened there. Perhaps you can ask them.”

“Ask them, my lord Emperor?”

“Yes. Some of you will end up there, condemned for treason. Tribune!”

Several of the Emperor’s Praetorians burst out of the undergrowth, and the cult members were surrounded. They promptly arrested Geoffrey, the size of his hat identifying him as the leader, bashed a couple of heads together, and took the entire sorry lot back to the nearest guard post for questioning. The Emperor and Russ were left by the fireside, along with the goat. Russ turned a bone idly over in his hands and sniffed it to see if there was any meat or marrow left.

“Will you be merciful to them?”

“I should think so. Poor fools didn’t know what they were doing, in any case. The ringleaders will go to Horus, and the rest can take some time in the local gaol to think about what they’ve done. And this goat probably belongs to somebody. There might be a case of theft as well.”

“You told them about the curse? And about Malcador?”

“Yes, but nobody will believe them even if they do talk. Any more questions?”

“…Do I still need to be wearing trousers?”

“Not necessarily.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Originally a writing prompt for 'Royal AUs')


	3. In which there is more treachery, and some licking.

“Let it dry first, otherwise she’ll get suspicious. And make sure there are no dogs around – we don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.”

“I’m fully aware of what happened last time, Mort. I had to snap his neck myself and dispose of the dog. Those idiots thought he’d killed himself and the animal jumped from the window in its grief. As if!”

“I think it went rather well, myself.”

“You would, Horus. You weren’t there.”

\----

“Is she dead?”

“What do you think? Of course she’s dead! But you made it too strong. It wasn’t five minutes before she started throwing a fit and shrieking to wake the dead – surrounded by armed guards! The woman has a private militia, for heavens’ sake! What were you thinking?”

“Let go of me. Sit down. Just sit down. I’ll have you know that I made exactly as strong as last time. She must have been incredibly sensitive to it… some people are.”

“Well, _now_ we know that! It didn’t help then, did it! I had to start shrieking myself -.”

“Which you do very well.”

“ – and summon half the estate and tell them that she’d suffered a sudden nervous affliction brought on by excitement. They might not believe it but I don’t care, I was already running….”

“She is fairly old. It might well be plausible to them.”

“Well, not running. Trying to help. Trying to look as if I were helping, wondering if I should stick the knife in just to make sure. They were very sorry about the whole thing, I put on a play of being remorseful, and _then_ I ran. Ferrus is still sweating.”

“Angron is looking after him, don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll tell us a tale next full moon.”

“She kissed me, that was the worst part.”

“What, does she not have any teeth? Is she wrinkled and puckered like a cat’s a-.”

“No, you fool! _She kissed me_. Look.”

“You’re shaking? Well, it was a close one.”

“I can’t control it, Mort. This has nothing to do with anxiety.”

“And… you say she kissed you?”

“Yes.”

“After…?”

“Yes. And before she dropped, and it’s been more than enough time.”

“Ah… I’m fairly sure I have the antidote somewhere. Not that it’s enough to kill you. But it could be unpleasant for some time….”

“Unpleasant! _Unpleasant!_ It hurts! I’m trembling like a frightened rabbit, my chest is tightening and my legs have locked! I couldn’t stand and strike you if I tried, and believe me I want to try!”

“Just… it’s alright, you’ll recover. Stay there.”

“Of course I’ll damn well stay here; I have no choice! You imbecile! A ‘master assassin’ who manages to kill his own brother and not his target!”

“Well, your lungs seem fine so far.”

“Shut up and get me that antidote or so help me, I’ll fall on you when I drop!”

“You’re not going to die. And the target was eliminated, you saw it happen.”

“I declared her dead myself! So if I was wrong, she’ll go on the pyre alive anyway, and good riddance to the old hag!”

“See, there’s some optimism.”

“I’ll meet her in hell and slit her throat again!”

“Konrad! Don’t sneak past, I can see you! Come in here and shut him up. Don’t worry, he can barely move.”

“How dare you! How dare you insult a dying m-!”

“Mort, shall I ask you to explain or shall I not bother?”

“It involved a prominent underworld figure, a romantic tryst and a skin-borne poison. Need I say more? Just hold him while I dilute this.”

“Did it work?”

“Yes, in a way. The subject died a little too promptly, but I think it was a bad reaction. It should have been effective after a couple of hours, as you see here. A sub-lethal dose produces muscle spasms, pain and, apparently, fits of pique. Two out of those three should resolve as soon as… hold him still… I get the antidote in. Wait for a moment.”

“Do they need to be still for it to work?”

“No, I just want to enjoy some peace and quiet. Five minutes should be sufficient.”

\----

“- bastard, and Konrad, you’re as bad as he is, treating me like some kind of experimental animal! Get out of my sight, traitor!”

“You should be fine now. But next time, brother, I’m going to just let it wear off on its own.”


	4. In which someone turns up in an unusual form

“I shall have to correct you, Mort. Bestiality, after all, is a little too far even for our dear dishonoured brother.”

“But Horus – it’s a horse.”

“ _He_ is a horse, Mort. A fine stallion, at that.”

“Still a horse!” Mortarion felt a little queasy – an almost unknown experience for him. He wondered whether to labour the point, or to walk away, or perhaps whether Horus’s smile was hiding something important.

They stood, shoulder to shoulder, and watched their brother talk to the animal, stroking its nose with obvious affection.

“Has he finally gone mad?”

“We’re all mad here, Mort.”

“I know that, but… it’s a _horse_.”

Horus chuckled. He would have to explain, it seemed – although the prospect of leaving Mortarion to dark and horrid confusion was an entertaining one in itself.

“You remember he had a partner, back in the palace?

“Which one? There were so many.”

“A blacksmith, serving our family.”

“Oh… I vaguely recall one. An artisan of the purest sort, I think. He made good weapons.”

“Yes. A very special individual. Our brother’s true love.”

Mortarion snorted.

“One of thousands, I imagine.”

“No. That’s the thing about him – he lusts freely, I’ll grant that. But he loves faithfully. That blacksmith captured his heart as surely as he captures our eyes, and they are still together.”

“Well, isn’t that a tragic story. One banished to the forest, the other left in the city to brood over his forge and - .”

“He wasn’t left behind. He’s right there.”

“He….” The cogs turned in Mortarion’s head with surprising speed, given the situation he was being told to accept. “Was turned into a horse.”

“By Magnus,” Horus confirmed, “to allow him to come here. Unfortunately, there’s no reliable way of turning him back, not just yet. Magnus is working on it, I assure you.”

“But progress must be slow, with Lorgar crawling all over him every minute of the day.”

“I imagine he finds ways to cope.” Lorgar’s obsession with Magnus was far from healthy, and only the sorcerer’s fondness for his fanatical brother made him able to bear it with such patience. “In any case, they currently have an arrangement whereby the poor man can become human for a time on a full moon.”

“A reverse were-beast.”

“Of a sort. You should see them, Mort – it’s like watching two halves of a sundered soul heal back together. Until he turns into a horse again.”

“That’s… I’m not entirely sure what that is. Strange. A level of strange that I would only expect from our side of the family. You’re right about us all being mad, Horus.”

“He can understand what’s being said, you know.”

“What?”

Horus indicated the stout black horse, two white socks on its forelegs its only markings. Their brother was sorting its short mane with quick, careful movements.

“He still retains his mental faculties entirely. Speak to him and you are speaking to Ferrus, smith to the royal court, diligent and skilled craftsman – but he will only respond as a beast of burden can. I cannot imagine his fortitude, to be able to stand such imprisonment day after day, only released for a few precious hours at a time.”

“Can you ride him?”

“Only one person is permitted that privilege,” Horus turned and fixed Mortarion with a wicked smirk, “and I think we all know who that is.”


	5. In which there is a 3rd lot of treachery, but not according to plan

Horus looked up as the man entered, but didn’t stand from his comfortable position by the fire. He outranked most people, most of the time. It was the other man’s prerogative to kneel and grovel and offer a humble ‘your Highness….’

Horus waved him to the bench opposite.

“You forget, Captain; we were stripped of our titles when our father chose to exile us. I was once the heir, but no longer. Each of us had our station and our duty, but no longer. We were struck from the rolls of honour and plucked from our seats of power. All we have is this –,” he motioned at the dark walls around them, “and whatever aid comes of our allies’ charity.”

“And I am here to offer such charity,” the captain said quickly, before the meaning of the words sank in a little deeper, “not that I consider you a charitable cause! Or requiring much aid, or – or in any way weak! Your Highness… or what you would be called….”

He dabbed at his brow in a quick, subconscious movement.

“Lord is fine,” Horus said. “And your fear of me betrays you. I hope it won’t be your undoing.”

“Of course not, my lord.”

“Good.” He leaned forward and poked the fire. Beyond the reach of its light, there were no servants or guards in attendance. He had promised privacy, and the fortress was more than large enough for that. “Now, the strength of your forces….”

“Did you not get my message, my lord?”

“I did. But I assumed that, since all communications to or from this place are routinely intercepted and read by the Emperor’s minions, you would be prudent enough to somehow obfuscate any mention of your intentions and your resources. Unless… well, unless you _really_ have a band of three, one of whom is currently imprisoned, and limited access to the palace….”

The crackle of the fire dominated, and a faint howling – not an animal – echoed from somewhere in the castle.

“I see.” Horus said. “Well, no matter. Your presence is evidence enough that your will is strong. And I can take care of the strategy, from here. You needn’t worry about that.”

“Is it true, my lord – that you once had Crown Prince Dorn lose his temper over a game of chess?”

“Ah, not quite. I did defeat him fairly regularly, but I don’t recall him ever being a sore loser. He always takes it with stoicism. Roboute too, although he sees more humour in the whole business. Russ, on the other hand… is freer with his emotions, victory or no. Not that he means any harm, in the end.”

“You speak fondly of your brothers, my lord.”

“Should I not?” Horus fixed him with a gaze that made him fumble for words of denial. “They are as complicit as my father in sending me out here, and no doubt they’d hate to see me – or any of us – return… but I can’t entirely blame them. And I can’t shake a certain amount of fraternal affection.”

“You’d be reluctant to remove them from the path to the Emperor?”

Horus chuckled quietly. “Testing me, are you? Am I willing to kill my brothers, is that what you want to know?”

“I… meant no offence, my lord.”

“But we all must make sacrifices, yes? I _would_ kill them, if it should ever come down to that – but I hope and pray that it doesn’t. I’d rather have them alive. If I take the throne of Cthonia, there is little they can do except surrender to me. And I’d much prefer that than having to destroy them.”

“And the Emperor?”

“Well, I’ll have to remove him somehow, won’t I?” the daemon prince’s mouth curled in a smile. “How I do it is not your concern. All you have offered to do is get me within striking range, correct?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Excellent. Let’s overthrow the Emperor together, shall we?” He leaned forward and gave the fire another prod. “To the plan, then.”

“Ah yes, the plan.” The captain rubbed his forehead again and shifted in his seat.

“You say you can get me inside the palace, once you have been promoted within the royal guard. You also told me that you hold favour with Roboute, and with several orders of knights. What about the Custodians?”

“What about them?”

“Well, we have to get past them somehow.”

“Ah, yes. Obviously, evasion is better… it’s possible that my friends and I, in royal livery, might distract them enough to allow you to enter undetected.”

“I see. And at what point will you show your true colours?”

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“You are in league with traitors. You are the mastermind of a plot to smuggle an exiled prince back into the imperial palace and you aim to achieve this with a grand total of three men by calling in some loyalist favours… without ever falling under suspicion. You approach my supporters in the capital and manage to convince them somehow that you’re serious about this, then are further granted an audience with me in person.”

“My lord?”

“Does none of this make you suspicious?”

“In what way, my lord?”

“Did you assume that I’m desperate enough to agree to such a scheme? If I refused, would you tell them that I don’t currently present a threat? Or that I’m cleverer than they thought? And if I accepted… how far would you let it get before betraying me in turn to your Imperial masters?”

“I still don’t understand, my lord.”

“Yes you do. You are my father’s spy, and at this point your main hope was that I’d declare your little plot ridiculous and send you away with nothing except information. Well, I’m not sending you away with information.”

The man stayed still and silent, as if hoping to avoid a predator’s notice.

“I shan’t be sending you away at all.”

“I discovered this traitor plotting against you,” crooned a voice from the shadows, “so lucky that I did. He would work with Horus to breach the walls of the palace and murder you where you stood….”

A dark figure prowled from an alcove towards the trembling human on the bench, who didn’t look round. His hands clenched white on the edge.

“I took care of him, don’t worry – just like I did his scheming friends. How fortunate that we should stop them before they managed to harm you.”

A serrated blade slipped snugly across his throat and the gush of blood was like a weary sigh. The midnight-clad form kept hold and made another deeper cut, and his head came cleanly off, his expression one of abject terror.

Horus considered where they should put the body, as he watched his brother cradle the head.

“Sometimes, dear Father,” Konrad said to the lifeless eyes, “I wonder if I’m the only thing standing between you and a horrible death….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 'Royal AU' prompt: "Let’s overthrow the king together, shall we?"


	6. In which 3 men are foolish, but only one gets his comeuppance

“Who’s that?”

Julius glanced up through the trees.

“A water-nymph,” he said immediately.

Marius snorted. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not!”

“They don’t exist.”

“But how can you be sure?” Julius elbowed Krysander looking for support. Krysander ignored him and stuffed the pheasant they’d trapped into a sack. “I mean, look… tell me that’s an earthly being.”

“It’s an earthly being,” Marius said, “now let’s go.”

Receiving no response, he turned, to find both Julius and Krysander staring from their vantage point in the undergrowth at the figure bathing under the waterfall. There was, admittedly, an air of ethereal beauty about the scene – the bubble of running water, the pool shimmering in the sunlight, a pale, majestic figure standing waist-deep, silver hair falling to its shoulders… almost enough to make one believe that there could be such things as….

He shook himself out of his trance.

“Come on. Let’s at least give them privacy.”

“There’s a thought,” Krysander said softly, as if Marius hadn’t spoken at all. “Is that a man or a woman?”

“It’s a water-nymph,” Julius insisted.

Marius sighed, but deigned to take another look. “A man. Or a woman with extraordinarily broad shoulders, who wrestles bears for a living.”

“Quiet, Marius. You’ll startle it.”

“ _Him_. A man, not a bloody nymph. And, I’ll wager, a man who’d like to be left to his bath and not have to deal with peeping toms crashing about in the bushes.”

Krysander muttered something about ‘he might not mind’.

“Of course he’ll mind. And he’s probably lord of the bloody manor or some such, and he’ll come after us with blade and fury intent on having our heads unless we can escape! So let’s go!”

A thought occurred to him, and he ceased his frantic gestures and looked around at the placid, sun-dappled forest with sudden trepidation.

“You know who the lord of the manor is round here, don’t you?”

“Hm? Oh, some… Lord Sigismund….”

“No. I think we’ve gone too far this time, lads. I think we chased our dinner into dangerous territory… daemon territory.”

Julius stared at him for a moment before returning his gaze to the waterfall.

“You mock me for believing in water-nymphs and suddenly you talk of daemons?”

“They might as well be. You’ve heard what they say about them… men of infinite evil. The corrupted sons of the Emperor… the daemon princes. If they catch us, we’ll be dead – or worse.”

His tone, while perfectly capturing the horror and gravity of the situation, did nothing to convince his companions.

They were still enchanted by whoever – or whatever – was in front of them.

“Oh, I give up.” Marius huffed and picked up the sack that Krysander had let drop, preparing to abandon them. He wouldn’t actually do that, of course. Just go a few yards, wait for them to tire of their voyeurism and get a scare realising he’d left, then appear and rebuke them soundly before getting out of here, back to where the only punishment for trespassing would be a mere few lashes.

He didn’t understand why they were so fascinated, anyway. Certainly, spying on a person (and a fine-looking person, at that) whilst they bathed was a cheap thrill, but the priority was generally to leave as stealthily as possible, to make ribald jokes out of earshot. Not one man or woman had ever commanded this much attention, especially with game in the bag and bellies crying out for lunch.

What was so special here? Granted, there was a certain languid tranquillity about the movements, great power concealed in a lithe, slender frame, but that could be any number of people. Just because his arms were long, covered in smooth swathes of muscle and ending in slim hands, didn’t make him unique. Neither did the proud set of his neck, merging seamlessly up into that thick, shining hair and down into a toned back curving enticingly to disappear under the water. It was hardly worth noticing the way the sun caressed ivory skin without a flaw or blemish, glistening with drops that begged to be gathered with one’s tongue....

Marius blinked. How long had he been watching? Only a few moments, no doubt, but it had seemed like hours. He almost wanted to look back, to sink himself into the worship of that body with his eyes. But it was dangerous here.

“Lads.” He pulled on their shoulders, trying to make them move with growing urgency. “Let’s go.”

They shrugged him off.

“Give me a second,” Krysander murmured.

“Look, you’re acting like starving dogs in front of meat. You’re drooling, Julius!”

Julius wiped his mouth with his sleeve, but didn’t move.

Marius grabbed him and forced him around, then did the same with Krysander. They both scowled at him, more angry than they had any right to be.

“Look, we should really -.”

“Oh, just go!” Julius snapped, shoving him away. “If you don’t want to have fun, just run off. We’ll catch you up.”

They turned back, and Marius slumped in defeat. He might as well abandon them, if they really meant to stay. He hated to think what might happen, but it was their own fault if they wouldn’t listen. They’d probably come running after him anyway as soon as the light started to fade, desperate not to be left in the forest – plus, he had the food.

“You see?!” Julius pitched the words over his shoulder in a snarl. “He’s gone! You ruined it.”

“We’ll just have to wait for him to come back,” Krysander said, and Julius agreed with a sigh. They fixed their eyes on the pool.

Marius started to walk backwards, wondering if they’d realise and turn around. He kept his eyes on their backs, but his other senses were suddenly diverted elsewhere.

He thought he heard the snap of a twig.

The hair on his nape stood and he was abruptly afraid – he wanted to call out to them but the words died in his throat.

Soft breath touched the back of his neck and his arms were gripped by long, elegant fingers.

“And what do we have here…?”

\---

The giant on the black horse crashed through the undergrowth without warning, and Julius and Krysander demonstrated their admirable loyalty to each other by fleeing in completely separate directions. But they were outnumbered as well as outpaced; a pair of mounted squires and two more of their huge masters circled in front of them and they were trapped, corralled together in a clearing.

“Look at this,” the closest prince said, pointing at them with the haft of what looked like a huge scythe. “We found something worth chasing after all.”

“Set them running!” his brother, atop a snorting chestnut beast, was foaming at the mouth almost as much as it was. “I’ll cut them down!”

“Patience, Angron!” called the one who had flushed them out. “We’ll give them a fair start.”

He gazed down at them expectantly. Julius’s only thought was how shiny the princes’ hairless heads looked in the sun.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

They faltered, back-to-back with no hope of escape. Krysander noticed that the leader’s horse was entirely black, and entirely too large.

“Run!” he barked at them.

And they did.

\----

Julius flailed along a path he thought he knew, feet and chest competing for the title of ‘most painful body part’. Headlong flight was tiring and he was starting to flag – but every time he slowed, he heard hoofbeats closing behind him and was forced into another agonising sprint.

They could easily overtake him, but that wasn’t happening and he was too scared to give up entirely. Would they let him go? Would he die?

For a fleeting moment in between gasped breaths, he wondered how Krysander was doing.

\----

Krysander had given up entirely.

Always a good climber, he had chosen the first scalable tree that presented itself and scurried up it like an oversized squirrel. Now perched in the branches, he watched the monstrous shaggy hounds that the bastards commanded lose the scent and pace, snarling, around the roots with their noses to the ground.

Their master was less easily fooled.

“Hello, little bird.” The one on the pale horse, tall and gaunt and terrifying, waved up at him with the hand not holding the scythe. “Are you building a nest?”

Krysander said nothing. A couple of the dogs caught on and placed their front paws on the trunk, beginning to bark. The others followed suit and soon the base of the tree was alive with thrashing tails and gnashing teeth.

“I know you’re up there, little bird, and so do they. Want to come down and save us the trouble?”

Hugging his knees, Krysander watched the hounds.

“You can’t stay in your tree forever….”

By some miracle, he found his voice. It was rough from exhaustion and thirst.

“You can’t stay out hunting forever!”

The prince laughed.

“Very well – I wonder who’ll tire first? I have my men and my dogs; you have nothing for company but leaves….”

Slowly, an idea occurred to Krysander. Even more slowly, he shifted and began to move along the branch, heading towards the outside of the tree, hoping that he wasn’t visible from the ground. The hounds were still milling, frustrated.

“I can wait, little bird….”

\----

Marius had confused thoughts about being swept off his feet as he was snatched out of the way. The hunt thundered past and scattered his two companions before he could warn them and he was left alone with his captor – and a stocky black horse that had appeared seemingly from nowhere.

“Hello, my dear.”

Close up, the effect was even more overpowering – Marius stared open-mouthed, his intellect rapidly disappearing.

“It’s very rude to spy on people while they’re bathing.” The prince was very tall. He had to stoop slightly to get at eye level – and Marius’s eyes were almost six feet off the ground. He was also very near.

“Don’t hurt me,” Marius squeaked.

“You hear that?” the prince looked at his horse, for reasons unknown. “You hear that, Ferrus? He thinks I’ll hurt him….”

The horse snorted.

“I know!” he smiled, and it made Marius both more and less afraid. “I won’t hurt you, my dear. Shall we retire somewhere quiet? Away from my brothers and their hunt.”

“Are they hunting my friends…?”

“Well, I can’t promise their safety. But no doubt Horus will get bored soon enough and go chasing some other morsel.”

“And me?”

“I can take care of you. If you would let me.”

Marius just stood, a pronounced redness rising in his cheeks. That last statement had been so full of implication, he wasn’t sure what to think. Perhaps it was best not to think.

“Yes. I’ll let you. Um, comfort me. Or something of that sort.”

“Good….” A hand enclosed his, warm and secure, and he was quite willing to be led back to the waterfall.

\----

The branch had become dangerously thin and it seemed as if the baying of the dogs got louder every second. However, Krysander was closing in on his goal. He would soon reach the branches of the next tree – and then he would keep climbing, to the tree after that, and the tree after that…. The swathe of forest he would have to traverse was something he determinedly refused to imagine.

“Getting tired yet, little bird?”

He didn’t dare to answer, in case it gave away his position.

“About to fall off your perch?”

The branch began to creak. Krysander froze, only moving again when he was sure it would hold.

“Maybe I should knock you off?”

He fervently hoped that his assailant would find nothing to throw.

The branch creaked again, and Krysander considered moving to another. He glanced up, noting that the one above looked sturdier.

“Where are you, little bird?”

He avoided looking down, but it seemed that the hunting party was circling the tree, suspicious of his silence. It was move now, or stay here for ever.

He steadied himself, relying on the rough bark to keep his feet in place, and slowly rose. A crouch turned into a stoop, from which he could cautiously stand upright with both hands resting on the branch above. He shifted his balance, preparing to pull up onto it - and heard a loud _crack_.

The world flashed past. He struck the ground and something snapped and he didn’t have time to find out what it was before the dogs were on him.

\----

Julius had fled this far without faltering – but now his luck ran out. His toes hooked a root and he sprawled headlong and lay panting, waiting to be trampled.

The horses slowed and circled around him. The prince on the black horse dismounted and seized Julius by the collar before he could roll away, dragging him upright on trembling legs.

“You run well, my friend.”

Julius squirmed and whimpered in his grip.

The other prince was suddenly beside them, brandishing an axe.

“Let me have him!”

“You know, he’s given us our sport – I’m tempted to let him go….”

The axe-wielder snarled and made a grab for Julius, but the other jerked their prey out of reach.

“I’ll kill him, Horus! I’ll have his head!”

“I know you will. And I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“Damn you!” He whirled away and buried his axe in a tree trunk with an inarticulate roar of rage.

“Excuse my brother,” the prince said, “he’s a little short-tempered.”

\----

Well-comforted, Marius was reluctant to move, even when the rest of the hunters arrived carrying Julius and conspicuously missing Krysander.

“By the gods!” the leader exclaimed. “What _have_ you been up to?”

He received an eye-roll from his silver-haired sibling. “I should think it was obvious.”

The prince was somehow already dressed, while Marius struggled into his trousers.

“Ferrus, how can you just stand there and watch that?”

The horse blinked placidly at him and twitched its tail.

“Horus, you know he doesn’t mind….”

“Are you finished?” asked the one with the scythe. “The hounds ate mine. What about yours?”

He indicated Julius, who had begun to struggle and protest at the news that Krysander was dead.

“We’ll take them back,” Horus decided. “Perhaps Magnus can make use of them.”

“Are they… unsullied?”

“Well, he isn’t,” Marius’s companion said. “Not any more.”

Horus sighed. “I can see that. Take them both. He can accompany you, if you’ve taken a shine to him.”

“I’m not sure. He has a rough sort of charm, but lacks stamina.”

Marius was oblivious to the insult as he was lifted onto the nearest horse.

“Where are we going?”

“Home, my dear.” The prince settled behind him. “You can be our guest. Your stay might be short, but it’ll no doubt be enjoyable….”


	7. In which - roadtrip!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, there are barbarians on the northern border, and the Emperor sends Guilliman and some troops to repel the hostile forces. They really need reinforcing if they’re going to win, and so the tactical genius decides to call in at the castle containing his demonic brothers. This goes swimmingly – for them, at least.

“… Besides, they’re condemned anyway,” was the last Roboute caught of the conversation.

“What?” he addressed Horus directly, challenging him. There would be no secrets, not while he was here. They could leave their nefarious plotting for later.

“The men in the dungeons. The _traitors_.” (Roboute pretended not to notice the facetious emphasis there) “They will die, days or weeks or months from now. It makes no difference how they die – here or elsewhere, on the gallows or in battle. They have no reason to live.”

“And?” Roboute had a suspicion that he wouldn’t like this.

Horus grinned. “I propose we give them one. We select the best, rank them and arm them – and you have your reinforcements.”

His suspicions were right. He didn’t like it.

“How, may I ask, can one produce worthy fighters from miscreant thugs?”

“That’s the beauty of it. They choose each other. We have a few days before your troops catch up, don’t we? In that time, they fight until the strongest remain. We can perhaps reduce their numbers by half.”

“Not ‘we’. _You_. You _,_ and whichever of your brothers is insane enough to comply, are fully responsible for this doomed endeavour.”

“They’re your brothers too,” Horus responded, before adding “does this mean you approve?”

“No. Yes.” Roboute sighed and rubbed his forehead. “As much as it’s an idea born malformed from the pox-ridden mind of an abomination unto man… we need the numbers. Our enemies in the north won’t give up without a struggle.”

“Good, good. You hear that, Magnus? He says we can do it, isn’t that nice of him? To dictate how we utilise the criminals under our command.”

“You’re twisting my words, Lupercal.”

“And what of it?”

Roboute couldn’t be angry with Horus, not here, in his territory. It was far too dangerous. He felt unease and showed irritation.

“You are too arrogant. I hope that won’t carry onto the battlefield.”

“You’ll see, I imagine, when we get there.”

“ _If_ we get there. _If_ your hideous little scheme comes to fruition, and _if_ you can marshal a hundred scoundrels, heretics and murderers.”

“Such little faith, brother….”

The courtyard rang with the sounds of battle. Not the clash of swords and armour, but fists and feet. A mass brawl, such as one might find outside any tavern near to closing-time, on a huge scale. Men struggled, and fell, and were dragged to the side. Some expired from unlucky wounds, some fled as best as they were able, and a few lost their nerve before a blow could be landed. Nothing stood to prevent them from leaving; condemned as they were, it remained their choice. To die here, to die further north, or to die on the gallows of the city – those were the paths of fate, which they were bound to follow whichever point of the compass they ran to.

Horus planted his hands on the battlements and gazed in apparent satisfaction at the heaving crowd below. Magnus stood at his shoulder – Roboute knew the one-eyed sorcerer could see into people’s minds, and wondered how the scene looked to him; nearly one hundred souls all flaring, rampaging, vying for supremacy in the most primal of ways. Who would burn brightest to his brother’s witch-sight? Probably Angron, actually, leaning over the wall on the other side with undisguised hunger. He had never been quite right. It was a mercy that he was kept out here, away from a world of potential victims. And of course, he would join them for the journey north, never one to pass up an opportunity for bloodshed.

All ten of them fed off death, to be truthful – but the ones who did so most blatantly were standing here. Horus, delighting in his army of brutes. Angron, the most brutish of all. Magnus, who gained strength (if rumours were to be believed) from human sacrifice. Fulgrim, who craved the power and sensation that came with ending life. And Mortarion, lurking in the shadows, the picture of Death itself.

Roboute was a born leader, a warrior just and noble, and he hated them. Partly for their deeds, partly for their motives, but also because they showed him up. They made him feel like an addendum to his own campaign. These monsters in human form (when they _were_ in human form, he thought, and shuddered) dominated the arena of war – he knew this, and Horus knew this, and it festered like a week-old carcass between them, neither daring to touch it lest it rupture and spill its hateful contents. He would let his brother have superiority, this once. Then he would return to his comfortable life in the royal palace, far from this castle and its crop of degenerates.

What had gone so wrong with their father’s legacy? How was it that there were but three good sons, and ten sadistic horrors? Roboute made a mental note to take it up with the Emperor later.

\----

“Does the horse have to be at the table?”

“The horse has a _name_ , Roboute.”

“Does Ferrus have to be at the table?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask – why did you name your horse after that blacksmith that used to hang around?”

“Oh, you see Roboute, it’s not actually –.”

“Shut up, Lorgar.”

“… Is it some kind of enduring loyalty? A reminder of him?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. By the way, Magnus….”

“Working on it.”

“You’ve been working on it for a long time now, Magnus. We can’t wait much longer.”

“You’re wanting to marry?”

“Get out of my head. Yes, we do.”

“I’m not in your head, brother; it’s plainly obvious. You’ll have to go back to the capital and reconcile with Father.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort. My plan is to stay until he grants us a ceremony – nothing elaborate, as much as I hate to say it. Then, we leave.”

“So… the only way he can get rid of you is by letting you marry? I like it.”

“Exactly, Horus. All he needs is to declare the union official, then I’ll go. No other terms. He’ll have to accept.”

“You can do that in three days, surely? I can extend the spell for that long, at least.”

“We can’t take that risk, Magnus. If he tur– if we’re forced to stay too long, you know what will happen. We could be permanently separated.”

“As much as I have no idea what you’re talking about – it sounds like you’re trying to manipulate Father, and I can’t let that happen.”

“You’re the ideal son, aren’t you Roboute? Running to tell daddy because your horrid siblings want him to agree to one tiny thing that’s hardly beneath his dignity. Nobody has to find out.”

“People will talk. Whatever it is you’re doing, people will stand and defend their Emperor.”

“Father is perfectly capable of defending himself. You speak as if I’m putting him in danger, which I’m not. The only concern for him will be to remove me as soon as possible, and conceal my presence from my supporters inside the court.”

“Supporters? You still believe that anyone is on your side at home?”

“I know they are. Don’t be so naïve. We all had our associates, and most are still alive. They didn’t come here with us.”

“I will root out and destroy those traitors!”

“Why? They’re not doing anything by themselves. If you want to crush them, you’d have to start here. Can you do that?”

Roboute looked around at the ten formidable brothers (and one formidable horse) around him, and decided not to start anything.

\----

His men, intensively trained and thoroughly disciplined, were complaining. Roboute sympathised. Horus’s troops, if they could even be called such, were unpredictable and the threat of imminent death had apparently done nothing to curb their criminal tendencies. Problems appeared with irritating frequency – fights, thefts, ill-advised jests that were more cruelty than comedy.

The only thing worse than dealing with the prisoners was dealing with their gaolers.

Horus was as arrogant as ever – a competent commander, granted, but one who refused to listen to any advice save his own. Mortarion was scaring everybody, Angron could barely be controlled, Fulgrim was insufferable and Magnus’s power was constantly itching at the back of Roboute’s mind, worrying at his thoughts like a terrier with a bone.

“Stop doing that!” he snapped, ensuring that his men were out of earshot. “It’s driving me to distraction!”

“Stop what?” Magnus looked up from his book – that was another thing. The man was constantly reading. Even between rest stops, he rested some volume or other in his gigantic hand, presumably relying on his horse or his second sight to navigate. Books probably made up half of the baggage they’d brought with them, and Roboute took only a small satisfaction in the possibility that they would run out of food and starve. No doubt Horus would expect him to save them.

“You’re in my mind and I don’t care for it. Please stop.”

“Sorry.” Magnus gave a resigned shrug, “I hardly realise I’m doing it. Sort of a habit.”

He buried his nose in the text again.

Roboute ground his teeth (his jaw was aching, lately, from all the tooth-grinding that happened) and tried not to be the slightest bit afraid of the fact that Magnus could read the minds of several hundred men at once with such little effort that it had become a ‘sort of habit’.

\----

The camps, when nightfall came, almost looked like those of two opposing factions. Roboute had acquiesced to his commanders’ demands that they pitch as far as possible from Horus – not only to minimise discontent among the ranks, but also to minimise the possibility of anyone disappearing mysteriously in the night.

Though the fires of the two encampments might be at comfortable distances, Roboute himself had ended up uncomfortably close to his brothers, again in the name of diplomacy. A tactical session (a thinly disguised excuse for Horus to try and prove superiority) had run longer and longer, until he had no choice but to spend the night huddled beside his siblings under the stars, something that sounded innocent enough but revolted him deeply.

“Magnus,” Fulgrim said, and when no response was forthcoming, he poked the sorcerer in the arm. “Magnus, the moon’s halfway already.”

Magnus grunted, using a flame conjured in his hand to try and read without setting the book on fire.

“Will we get back in time?”

“No idea. Ask Horus.”

Always Horus, Roboute thought, bristling. Who was the leader of this campaign, again?

“Horus, will we get back in time?”

“I don’t know, brother dearest. Surely you two can wait for the next cycle?”

“We can’t!”

“You’ve been apart for the whole month, what’s another? Are you that impatient for him to spread you out and - .”

He received a kick in the shin and dissolved into laughter. Roboute didn’t know what they were talking about and didn’t care.

The only thing he was thankful for was the absence of the stink of corruption on the closest body. Even after three days of travel, Fulgrim’s skin somehow still smelled clean and sweet. It was unclear how he managed it. Perhaps he washed with his tongue, like a cat. If there was anyone flexible enough to do that, it was him.

Roboute banished the thought before it became uncouth. He knew what they got up to and had no desire to be involved in it. He had had his fair share of romantic engagements over the years… but that would be where he drew the line, if there should even be a need for such a line. His brother snuggled against him, close to sleep, and he took comfort in the fact that only a tiny spark was lit in the pit of his stomach. Immunity to seduction would serve him well here.

\----

“Lorgar!” Curze grabbed him and shook him violently. “Stop it! Just stop it!”

Lorgar stopped talking for a second, which was more than enough.

“Why?”

“Because it’s driving me insane!”

“But I have to. He wants me to. That’s why he….”

“Shut up!” Curze slammed him against the wall – Lorgar was smaller, and hardly able to put up a resistance. “He left you here because you’re useless in a fight, not because you displeased him! Can you get that into your thick skull? He wants you to be safe. That’s all!”

“Don’t you dare try and tell me what he wants!” Lorgar’s voice rose and cracked, and he struggled uselessly against the iron grip of the Night Haunter. “I have to seek his forgiveness, that’s the truth! Let me go!”

“No.” Curze fought the urge to shake him again; it wouldn’t help. “Stop crawling around talking to yourself, stop this vigil. Just… go to bed.”

“Not until he gets back,” Lorgar insisted. “I have to stay awake, for him.”

“How long will he be gone, then? You can’t know that! He might never come back!”

“Liar!”

Lorgar surged against Curze, but there was no power behind it. He fell back against the wall, chewing a ragged thumbnail. He was obviously exhausted, his face gaunt and his eyes staring out of bruised-looking sockets; barely eating and never resting, declaiming his devotion to Magnus until the halls rang with his hoarse voice, bleeding from self-inflicted wounds as he offered his blood to the man who was the centre of his restricted universe.

Curze didn’t know what to do with him. Of course Magnus would return… but by then, it could be too late.

The sun was setting, and there were sinners out there in dire need of persecution. The Night Haunter had to venture out once more, but he also didn’t want to leave Lorgar, especially as it would be more of the same when he got back. The constant chanting and wailing, when all he wanted was a little peace.

Two hands fell on his shoulders, almost as if they belonged to the same person.

“You can go,” a dual voice said, “we’ll handle it.”

Curze faced the twins, who stared back impassively. He didn’t know which was which, but he liked neither. His trust was a meagre thing to begin with and they had done nothing to attain it. Lorgar might not benefit from this interaction – but then again, Curze didn’t particularly care about him either.

“Fine.” He left them to it, and slipped out of the castle into the growing shadows.

“Look,” either Alpharius or Omegon began, “you’re not helping Magnus.”

“You don’t know what he wants!” Lorgar still cowered at the wall, but his tone was fiercely defensive. “I angered him and he left, and it’s my duty to amend myself!”

“He left because Roboute came here and asked him to,” a twin corrected him. “You remember that?”

He nodded; of course he remembered their illustrious brother’s visit.

“They’re in the north now, at war against barbarians. And as soon as they are victorious, they will return.”

“But - .”

“Of course, Magnus will need all his power for the battle.” They fixed him with a look that was almost sympathetic. “And he takes his strength from you. What good is it to him if you’re in such a state?”

“My trials are hard, for him.”

“No, you’re simply punishing yourself for some perceived misdeed. What you should be doing is focusing on helping him, by helping yourself.”

One of the twins put a hand on his shoulder. Lorgar flinched, but didn’t move away.

“When he comes back, what will he think of you? When you confess that you spent all this time in self-indulgent penitence while he needed your faith, your trust? That you held a vigil at his bedside when he was away? That speaks of more love for yourself than for him.”

“Never!”

“It’s true.”

“Get away from me!”

“Sleep, little Aurelian,” the one not touching him said gently. “You will understand when you are rested.”

He was about to protest, but the hand on his shoulder moved to his collarbone and compressed a hidden point there, and he slumped unconscious to the floor. Alpharius and Omegon picked him up and carried him away, to put him to bed.

\----

The barbarian hordes crashed against their shield wall like a drunkard against a tavern bar. The lines of men bent, stretched, rallied to push back and advance. Riding through to press the attack, Roboute cut attackers cleanly down with every swing of his sword. His horse steadfastly ignored the rain of blows on its sides and struck out with its hooves, wounding and killing more. He looked ahead, to the masses of the savage enemy, to the ebb and flow of their movements, to victory.

He didn’t want to look behind.

A blinding pulse slashed across the battlefield, splitting men apart in bursts of flesh and blood. Those lucky enough to escape its brunt were tossed like leaves, scattering in every direction, falling onto the weapons of both sides. Magnus strode through the centre of the destruction, a giant wreathed in unnatural flames. Enemies fled in front of him and were too slow, falling and screaming as the fire enveloped them and left them twisted and dead with no wounds visible.

Horus, Mortarion and Angron charged into the melee side by side, equalling the ferocity of the barbarians. One of Angron’s twin axes was knocked from his hand – he crushed skulls with his fist instead, roaring in blind rage. He looked like he should belong to the other side, a berserker’s pagan god incarnate, skin swirling with strange tribal patterns and thorny protrusions. His allies gave him a wide berth; Horus was the only one daring to stand close. Mortarion cut his own swathe through the bodies, a fog-wreathed avatar of death wielding a huge glittering scythe. Roboute had wondered at such a peasant’s weapon – now its efficacy was lethally clear.

Daring to glance back, Roboute saw the last of his brothers picking off deserters as they tried to escape, toying with them before running them through with one of four blades. Bile rose in his throat – not because of the brutality; that was war – as he took in the form of a huge serpent, its purple-grey scales merging into the skin of a human torso. It was beauty warped into cruelty, and now he realised that the men dying on Fulgrim’s swords were running not away from the battle but _towards him_ , meeting their fate gladly. It made Roboute’s stomach lurch and he quickly regained his focus on the task at hand, not wanting to see.

He was thankful for the devastating power of his siblings, but nothing more.

\----

There were fallen heroes to be laid on their pyres, and casualties to be tended. Only a couple of days could be spared at most before their journey to the capital.

Roboute did not have time to listen to Horus.

“Look, brother!”

The general sighed. “What now?”

“Our plan. With the criminals. It worked.”

“ _Your_ plan, Horus. _Your_ plan. I don’t care. Leave me alone.”

“At least see the results.”

Roboute turned, with the reluctance of a man about to be confronted with something tedious and yet horrible.

Eleven eyes blinked up at him.

“Six?”

“The survivors.” Horus beamed and clapped a hand on the shoulder of the nearest miscreant, who looked elated despite the loss of an eye. “Out of seventy-four. These men have proved their worth and shall be pardoned.”

“You mean that they will be let out of the dungeons and employed in your household. Because they are _not_ , I repeat _not,_ vindicated by the laws of Cthonia. They cannot return to normal society.”

“I know, I know. But they have earned their lives, don’t you agree?”

Roboute gave a non-committal huff.

Horus dismissed his sorry band, and they dispersed joyfully in (Roboute was pleased to note) the opposite direction to the Imperial camp.

“We can go home now, I suppose.”

“Yes. But you don’t need me to lead you.”

“We are quite far away, you know. It might be beneficial to stay together.”

“I have a larger army than six to attend to, and it will take time. If you are ready, then feel free to leave now.”

“Always the diplomat,” Horus chuckled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get rid of us.”

“I am trying to get rid of you!” Roboute snapped, finally finding the end of his temper.

“Now now,” Horus was as unconcerned as ever. “Aren’t you grateful for the assistance? It might not have been such a decisive victory, had we not been here.”

“I am grateful! But you’ve tested my patience every step of the way and I’d rather not have to deal with your cabal of disgusting brutes another minute!”

“Are you calling me a disgusting brute?” Fulgrim said lazily, from the convenient patch of shade where he reclined. He hadn’t moved much since the battle, exhausted from maintaining his daemonic form for so long.

“Yes!” Roboute cried. “Yes, I am! Every time I look at the lot of you I’m reminded why Father sent you away, and more convinced than ever that he made the right decision!”

Fulgrim opened one eye. “How is Father?”

“Wh- he’s very well. More so for not having you around. Cthonia is prosperous and between myself and Dorn – and Russ, I suppose – a bright future is assured.”

“Future?” Horus said. “Is the old bastard about to die, then?”

Roboute was shocked and outraged, but couldn’t summon up the energy to punch his brother in the face.

“ _The Emperor_ is as healthy as ever. Age has hardly touched him, and he shall rule for many years to come.”

“Ah well.” Horus shrugged, as if their father’s continued presence was a regrettable failure on his part. “I suppose that’s for the best.”

“It is,” Roboute said firmly. “Now go, and take your hideous brethren back to where they belong.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

“And I suppose you won’t be wanting the supplies that you left in our castle?”

Roboute let out a small, strangled groan of suppressed rage.

\----

The doors to the great hall were flung open with a crash. Roboute jumped. His siblings didn’t.

“DEATH!” Lorgar cried, waving a flaming torch, completely naked. “The skies will rain down death upon false gods!”

He surged forwards and up onto the table. “The worlds of men shall be rent asunder and they shall all meet their DOOM!”

Roboute stared at him open-mouthed.

“Pass the jug,” Horus said.

“He….”

“The heavens shall burn and warriors turn upon their kin!”

Magnus looked up from his book and swallowed what he was eating.

“Lorgar,” he said quietly, “get down from there.”

“All shall tremble before the Betrayer of Mankind!”

“Just come and sit down.”

The preacher’s feverish gaze rested on Magnus. His fury dissipated, gradually, in the face of the sorcerer’s influence. He hopped down from the table and found a convenient bracket in which to place his torch, then returned to take his seat at Magnus’ side.

“For heaven’s sake, put some clothes on.” Horus frowned at him; the first sign of disquiet any of them had shown. Roboute was still struck dumb.

“I’m not cold,” Lorgar responded, piling up his plate.

“I don’t care if you’re cold. But don’t show off your… _assets_ when we have guests.”

One of the twins whispered something to the other, who conveyed it to Mortarion, who smirked.

“That was uncalled-for.” Magnus’s eye narrowed.

“What?” Mortarion shrugged. “It’s true.”

“He’s seen it all before, anyway,” Lorgar pointed his knife at Roboute, who reddened.

“ _I_ have, due to your previous behaviour at court. My companions, however, have not.”

The senior commanders of Roboute’s army shuffled nervously. They were illustrious warriors with many years of faithful service, the finest and bravest of men – and intimidated greatly by the Emperor’s fallen sons.

“I kindly suggest that you honour our brother’s suggestion and dress.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Lorgar hissed. “Mewling pawn of a false idol.”

“For the last time, our father is not an idol. He is not worshipped by the populace. He makes no claims to divinity. Our ancestors are revered as deities, as saints, but they were not gods in their time.”

“No wonder.” The preacher snorted. “With his fortress rotting and the borders of his empire collapsing, his people turning on him in droves….”

“Actually,” Roboute interrupted, “everything is stable.”

“I’ll let you maintain your pathetic fantasy for now, brother….”

“And I shall let you maintain yours.”

They eyed each other for a while in stony silence. Roboute couldn’t help but let his attention wander towards the lines of text tattooed over every inch of Lorgar’s skin. At the beginning, they had gone unnoticed, hidden under clothes – now, even his face bore row upon row of arcane symbols. What they would reveal, if translated, didn’t bear thinking about. In any case, they were a clear manifestation of one thing: Lorgar’s contempt for his father. One that was echoed in most of those present here.

They were tolerating him, Roboute knew. He wanted to leave before his time ran out. Not that they would kill him, of course – but other ways of wounding existed. He had no desire to be on the receiving end of any more of their malice.


	8. In which there are pleasant surprises

“Has he got worse?” Roboute asked, as the Emperor’s troops prepared to leave.

Perturabo turned around, scowling. He sat on a low wall in the courtyard, sketching with a piece of charcoal. He’d already refused to let his brother see the drawing.

“Worse?”

“Lorgar. I remember him charging about undressed in the palace shouting his horrid invective – but he never disrupted a meal. And you all acted like it was a common occurrence.”

“It is,” Perturabo replied. “If that’s ‘worse’, then yes.”

“He seems to have fallen completely into fiction. He thinks Cthonia is in a state of decay, when it’s not. He saw Father as a god, and now he sees him as little more than a corpse. He’s fawning over Magnus every minute of the day and cares for nobody else.”

“I know,” Perturabo said bluntly, and went back to work.

“Horus seems to believe that the ten of you are somehow gaining in power. I find that hard to accept – both the fallacy of it and the pitiful optimism it shows. He always had such ambition, but….”

“Go away.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Oh, I’ll be gone from here soon. I want that as much as you do.”

Roboute watched his brother’s back. There was no sign that he was about to offer any response.

“Are you all getting worse, Perturabo?”

The hand that was drawing stopped.

“Do you want to come home?”

“This is my home.”

“Ah, yes. You renounced Father with such vehemence. But he might accept you, if you came back.”

“No. They may be bored; they might be slowly going insane and becoming more bloodthirsty and cruel every day but I don’t want to leave, I can’t leave and go back to where I’m ground down under Dorn’s heel and you all mock me and Father only ever looks at me with regret in his eyes that he ever let me be….” Perturabo ground to a halt, sitting rigid. He obviously hadn’t meant for an outburst to happen, but it had.

“Go away,” he said finally, and did it himself, standing and striding swiftly into the keep.

The arrival of a messenger interrupted Roboute’s musings on the state of his brothers. He glanced up and saw royal livery, and had an inkling as to what this was.

Horus had no idea, of course, but he still got to it before its intended recipient. Roboute approached him as he finished reading, and pulled the missive from his hands.

“Baal is conquered?”

“We did that eight months ago,” Roboute said irritably, scanning his father’s message. It was exactly what he’d thought.

“Then what’s this about the royal family?”

“They are still in power, if you can call it that. The youngest son of the chieftain is in our custody, to make sure they behave.”

“And they haven’t.”

“There have been some attempts at rebellion. So Father is suggesting we give them a _reminder_ of who rules them now.”

“Kill the boy.”

“He’s hardly a boy, in r- no! There will be no executions.” _At least not yet,_ he thought – but it wouldn’t do to give Horus a hint of blood.

“So why couldn’t he wait till you got back?”

“He wants swift action.”

“Then you’re hardly the person to ask.”

“Horus! He wants my input. The hostage lives in the palace, at the moment, with all the dignity afforded to royalty – even defeated barbarian royalty. We have to make his condition… less comfortable, in a way that will convince his family to fall into line.”

Horus looked pointedly around. Roboute sighed.

“Exactly. I shall suggest that he is imprisoned here. Listen to me now.” He grasped Horus’s shoulder and made him pay attention. “ _If_ he is brought here, you are to treat him with respect. You are _not_ to harm him, or let any of our brothers loose on him. He will live in your household until such time as Father deems it necessary for him to be moved, and then you will give him up.”

“No harm. Got it.”

“I mean that! If there’s any hint that you’re doing… what you do, then you’ll be in trouble.”

“I’m already in trouble, I believe.”

“Horus, please. This is a chance to get Father to trust you again.”

“That’s hardly my main desire.”

“But it’s useful. You know that.”

“Fine, I’ll take the boy.” Horus always made a big show of being convinced, even if he’d already decided. It helped him win people over. Not that Roboute was ever going to be won over.

“He’s not a boy. Oh, and one thing – in confidence.”

“Hmm?” Horus leaned closer, which was not what Roboute wanted, even if it was necessary.

“The people of Baal live in a desert, which has… odd properties. Children are sometimes born with unusual characteristics. Combined with the bloodline of the ruling family, it means….”

“He’s an inbred mutant?”

“I wouldn’t describe it that way,” Roboute said stiffly. “There appears to be almost no inbreeding. But yes, he is a mutant.”

“Very well. I promise I won’t faint in shock if he has four arms or three eyes or some such. I already live with a horde of mutants, at least some of the time.”

“So I’ve seen.”

“The daemon forms are impressive, aren’t they?” Horus grinned.

“My sole impression is one of nausea. Especially with that hideous serpent that you’re still somehow calling a brother.”

“The one who just disappeared inside with one of your officers?”

“What?” Roboute maintained his composure for all of three seconds. “I’ll kill him!” He ran for the doorway, loudly promising various fates to any who dared to seduce his men.

“And you know,” Horus said to the large horse next to him, “he thinks _we’re_ the crazy ones.”

Ferrus shook his head.


	9. In which someone else joins the madness, with a proposal

"You were the first one to tell me I was beautiful."

"Don’t lie to me. That’s the only thing I’ve ever asked of you. Don’t lie."

"I’m not lying."

"Bloody look at yourself! I saw men throw themselves off the castle walls if you didn’t spare a look at them. The courtyards were littered with poems written for you that you’d discarded. The Emperor had a special guy whose sole task was to clean up the corridors before the more crude poems could be read out loud over the dinner tables. You had to bathe with your brothers after three of the servants who helped you committed suicide."

"Oh yes, those were fun… Not one of my father’s brightest ideas, I’m afraid. Me and the twins had such good times…"

"So stop lying."

"I. Am. Not."

"I understand you’re trying to make me feel good or trying to make us sound much more romantic than we are for some reason, but this isn’t a fairy tale of a beautiful prince and a lowly blacksmith. You liked me well enough and that’s that, but I’m not special and I couldn’t have been first to call you that, surely a thousand men and women told you that you were…"

The prince’s hand shot out much, much faster than Ferrus could have seen and pinned him against a tree. Fulgrim’s eyes blazed with witch-fire and if Ferrus hadn’t known him better, he would have feared for his life. As it stood, Fulgrim just hurt him and tightened his fist around Ferrus’ throat, making him choke and tug at the prince’s hand helplessly.

"Hot," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Sexy. Maddening." The words poured over his lips. "A temptation, a sin, a seductive nymph sent to _doom_ men, as if I were a personal punishment for them! You are so right. How they wept, and begged, and cursed, and each and every word they said spoke of how I made _them_ feel. _They_ were seduced, and allured, and taunted and corrupted by me, as if I existed to make them look sinful. All those words mean only what I brought forth in _them_. None of them applied to me.”

Ferrus tried to answer, his cheeks turning faintly blue from lack of oxygen. Fulgrim released him suddenly, stepping away and looking down at his kneeling and coughing form with fury.

"Leave me, _unspecial_ ,” he snapped. “Go away. My brothers won’t stop you.”

"No," Ferrus managed between still panting heavily.

"Leave."

"Never."

"I don’t want you here."

"Let me stay with you."

"Go away, Ferrus," Fulgrim said tiredly, turning away from him.

For a moment more, there was silence, nothing but the rustling of the leaves around them and Ferrus' heavy breathing.

"Marry me,” he suddenly blurted out.

Fulgrim burst out laughing bitterly. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

"I’m not."

"I’m a daemon, I don’t marry."

"And I’m a horse most of the time. We’re a bit unusual anyway."

"The others might mind, I think."

"Why would they? And I don’t fear them."

"Have you _met_ my brothers? They eat people. And that’s one of the nicest things they do. The poor bastards are usually dead for that.”

"The only torture would be to live without you."

Fulgrim was silent for a moment. Ferrus still only saw his back and not his beloved’s eyes.

“ _I_ eat people.”

"I know. I’ve seen it. But you mostly eat them in a good way."

Ferrus dared to step closer and put his hands around Fulgrim’s shoulders, pulling the prince slowly but surely against his chest, as carefully as one is supposed to treat a daemon with a very volatile temper. Fulgrim tried to push him away, but not seriously, and relaxed into the embrace finally. Ferrus held him for a minute, pressing small kisses against his neck and ears.

"Marry me, my prince," he repeated then.

"You have to be the only person who would ever think that’s a good idea."

"I don’t care as long as you do as well. I thought this was what we were like. I fight you for us. And you fight everyone else."

Now Fulgrim turned, regarding him with curious eyes.

"And frankly," Ferrus continued. "You’ve left me with the harder task."

Fulgrim smiled, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “You want to match your might against my brothers, then?”

"If I have to."

"They’d eat you for dinner. Literally."

"Better that than hearing you ordering me to leave."

Fulgrim tilted his head just slightly in reprimand, which was the closest he could ever come to apologizing. “So this is it, then,” he said flatly. “You want to marry a daemon snake.”

"No, I want to marry my beautiful prince who sometimes turns into a daemon snake, although it isn’t that much of a…"

Fulgrim’s hand shot out again, but not to choke him this time. He caught Ferrus’ jaw between long, delicate fingers with undeniable strength only barely held back evident in the grip.

"Manners," he purred against Ferrus’ lips.

Ferrus only smiled at him, and pulled him closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're thinking that this doesn't perhaps read like my writing style, that's because it isn't. Sirithy loved this AU and bolstered my expansion of it - and contributed this, which fits in as an aside to the main narrative.


	10. In which Horus utilises the power of 2d6

The dice were of average size, moderately worn by the years – but they looked tiny in the prince’s hand. One was black with white markings, the other white with black markings. Whether they had originally been made as a pair was not apparent.

What was apparent was that Horus wanted to play a game.

“Take these,” he said, and tipped them into the man’s hand. No response was forthcoming – the inmates here had learnt that silence and obedience was the best way to stay safe in the presence of their abominable keepers.

“Be sure to roll them fairly. If the faces total two, then you go free. That’s the good news. Three to eleven, and we’ll see which of us will join you. Twelve, and we form a pair.”

If the other man had had a liking for gambling, games and wagers, it was gone now. He let the dice tip onto the table. They bounced slightly, shivered, then came to rest.

“Seven,” Horus announced. “That would be me.”

“You always do that,” Magnus said, wandering through. “You know seven’s more likely to come up.”

“Quiet,” Horus said to his brother’s retreating form.

Another Magnus appeared in the doorway where the first had come in.

“It’s true, though,” he insisted. “The probability of a seven being rolled is….”

“I don’t need your mathematics!” Horus barked at him. “Go and practise making doubles somewhere else.”

The Magnus doppelganger (or perhaps it was the real one) disappeared. Horus turned back to the inmate, who was now several shades paler and looking somewhat sorry about the whole affair.

“Now, choose one of those and roll it.”

The white die was picked by shaking fingers, and produced a six.

“Sixty minutes, with me.” Horus retrieved both dice, rattling them together happily. “In there.”

‘There’ was a darkened room, with no furniture. The dice dictated who and how long, but gave no indication of what would happen. It was a game that Horus loved to play, and that those residing in the dungeons hated. They might have been liars, cheaters and gamblers – but they were never willing to gamble with their fates.


	11. In which there are more pleasant surprises

The wings, huge and creamy-white, rustled under their bindings in a stiff breeze.

Horus could have stared at them all day – except that there was thick honey-coloured hair, a slender frame and a sculpted face also vying for his attention. The Baalite prince stood and absorbed all scrutiny with an air of wounded pride, motionless and silent. It was unclear whether he understood his circumstances.

“What are your orders?” Horus asked the commander of the armed guard who had escorted their hostage from the Imperial fortress.

“To secure the captive in his quarters, inspect the perimeter, and make sure you aren’t up to any ‘funny business’, my lord,” the man replied – obviously echoing the words of Roboute or Dorn, or perhaps even their father.

“I see. And you are sworn to uphold the word of the Emperor and his household?”

“We are, my lord.”

“And you are the truest and most faithful of men?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Horus handed him a sizeable sack of coinage.

“I want that angel in my bed tonight.”

\----

They hadn’t tied him down, Horus realised, and was annoyed by that. It had been a pleasant evening, and the angel had followed his guards upstairs like a lamb, not yet knowing the layout of the castle. There were rooms set aside for him – but they weren’t the one he was in right now. Right now, he sat on the edge of Horus’s bed, illuminated alluringly by flickering candlelight and dressed only in a short tunic. It was enough to stop a strong man’s heart. Horus was stronger than most men, and even he was having trouble.

But he wasn’t tied down. Maybe the guards weren’t to blame; maybe it was his brothers’ doing. Magnus would know of Horus’s intent even without being present. And he would have probably told Curze, who would have told Fulgrim, who had this thing about permission. As hedonistic as his exquisite brother might be, Horus didn’t think he’d ever taken anything by force – forbidden fruits, certainly, but not those that were actively denied. All the influence that they commanded, the power to drive anyone and everyone to their knees (and lower), and he’d never really used it. He seduced, and enticed, and occasionally coerced… but if they said no, whether whispered plea or shouted defiance, that was the end of it. Horus’s lip curled. What use was absolute power if it was never exercised?

In any case, whoever had left the angel free had created quite a problem. Horus stood, arms folded, considering the best way to address it.

“I assume,” the angel said, “that this isn’t my chamber.” His words were accented but clear.

“You’re right. It’s mine.”

“Is this where I am to sleep?”

“It is,” Horus told him, and refrained from mentioning that, if things went to plan, neither of them would be getting much sleep at all.

“With you?”

“Naturally.”

A smile started on one side of those full, inviting lips, but didn’t reach the other.

“I understand that, as you say it, to ‘sleep with’ has another meaning.”

“It does.”

Horus started towards him, and he didn’t move away.

“Do you know what it means?”

“I have an idea.”

His wings stiffened and flared slightly as Horus stood over him. They were an arresting feature, so out-of-place on a physical being. Mythological angels in stained glass and manuscripts looked the same, certainly, but they didn’t have the weight, the _solidity_ of a real person, real feathers. Horus reached out to touch, but they evaded his grip seemingly without any action on the part of their owner.

“I doubt that your father, your Emperor, would approve.”

“He’s not here.”

“His law is in force throughout your land, I was told. It’s different from my home.”

 _Not for long,_ Horus thought. But he held that back and just shrugged. “Oddly enough, his law doesn’t reach out here.”

“You are his son.”

“Barely.” Horus wanted to claim the angel, not be drawn into family politics. Was that so much to ask?

“Your brothers are pleasant.”

Apparently it was.

“Really?”

“Yes, but… how do you say it? Close. Watchful. I felt trapped, with them. They are so concerned for the welfare of their father and the… correct business. Leman will run away, but he always returns. They are always so busy, in the palace.”

“That’s good to hear,” Horus said through gritted teeth.

“They punish my father by sending me to you, and I have no way of letting him know whether I’m hurt. But you… you seem honest.”

“Honest?”

“I hear that you’re evil, even from people who have never met you.”

“Trust me, I am.”

“But good and evil are something you decide for yourself. No matter what someone tells you, everyone has their own rules.”

He gasped in surprise as Horus seized a handful of his hair.

“Listen,” Horus growled. “I don’t want to hear the chronicles of your life and I don’t want to debate moral philosophy.”

To his great astonishment, the angel smiled and stood, carefully, bringing them face-to-face. There was something playful in his eyes, despite the grip restraining his head.

“I know what you want to do – you want to… what’s the word?”

“To ravish you,” Horus said firmly.

“Is that how you say it? To _ravish_ me. And I will let you.”

“What?” Now that he could make a move, Horus found himself unprepared. They were almost the same height. The angel’s arms slid around his neck, the wings encircled him, and a bare inch separated them.

“This is the furthest from my home I’ve ever been – I could be killed here and nobody would know. Your father is strict and your brothers are always watching. I cannot talk to my guards; I have no friends in the palace. You are the first person who has… wanted something more than ‘go here, stay there, be quiet’. And…” he brought his mouth close to Horus’s ear, “I will give it gladly.”

“I was told you were a virgin,” was all that Horus could come up with.

“I am.”

That was enough to endanger his upright position entirely.

“Do you expect me not to know the ways of this? Your kingdom is a strange place, if you… go to bed together unprepared for each other. We are taught well.”

Horus leapt on him, and he laughed, and there was no further talk of philosophy.

\----

“You look tired,” Mortarion grinned at Horus, when he emerged around noon, and gave him a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. Horus winced and eased himself into a chair.

“I am tired.”

“What about him?”

“He’s still asleep.” Horus glanced over and caught Fulgrim’s raised eyebrow. “And before you say anything, he was willing.”

“I know.”

“How is that possible?”

“He told me. I knew you couldn’t resist such a beauty, and the way those ruffians of Father’s were manhandling him was absolutely ghastly. So I went to see to his welfare… and stop them from lashing him to the bedposts so you could rape him like a common thug. He’d already worked out your intentions, mostly.”

“You see? He planned to agree.”

“He had. And, furthermore, it seems that you deflowered him in the process.”

Mortarion’s knife fell to the table with a clatter. “You bastard!”

“Don’t worry,” Horus smirked, directing it at Perturabo, who ignored him steadfastly. “There’s plenty of him to go around.”

“If he’s amenable to that.”

“I think he will be. Don’t deny it Fulgrim; you want to get your hands on those wings.”

“They are rather _striking…_.”

“They’re soft, you know that? The main – flight feathers, I suppose you’d call them – are stiff, but underneath... it’s silky as a cat’s paw. Silky, and warm, and he makes the most delicious noises when you stroke just the right spot….”

“Horus.” Lorgar said, somewhat primly. “We’re eating.”

“And they’re strong enough to grab and hold, if you want extra leverage when you….”

“Horus!”

“What? Can’t I describe my experiences, brother? We’ve all heard you rhapsodise about Magnus and his enormous – .”

“Excuse me,” Magnus interrupted, looking a trifle pained.

“It’s an act of worship!” Lorgar protested hotly.

“A very loud and often act of worship,” Curze added, “when I’m trying to sleep.”

“If you didn’t sleep in the early evening, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“If you didn’t fuck at all hours, it wouldn’t keep me awake!”

“Konrad has a point,” Fulgrim agreed.

Lorgar sulked, and Magnus sighed and went back to reading. This was the familiar exasperated tableau that greeted the angel as he entered, wearing a pair of Horus’s leggings and nothing else. He drew stares from the brothers, and a pleased wave of greeting from Horus.

“Ah, the hostage stirs,” Mortarion said. “Tell me, Prince of Baal - how are you finding our gilded cage?”

“Agreeable,” the angel replied softly, “though there’s so little light.” He turned to Horus. “By the way, my name is Sanguinius. So you know what to shout next time.”

The silence was broken only by Mortarion’s choking.


	12. In which tastes are revealed

“A great shame,” the physician said, picking up his fork. “Even if men stray from the path somewhat, it’s always hard to see them taken before their time.”

“It is,” Horus agreed. Mortarion seconded him, through a mouthful. “Thank you for taking the time to travel out here, Fabius.”

“Not at all,” the physician waved noncommittally, “it is my job, after all. I see to the Emperor’s citizens, even the law-breakers. I should be thanking _you_ , my lord, for offering me food and shelter tonight.”

“You don’t mind staying here?”

“Of course not. I am not afflicted, shall we say, by the more potent superstitions of the common man. There is a great deal of fatuous rumour around, none of which I am inclined to listen to.” He took another bite. “Besides, my lord, it would be rude to decline such an invitation.”

“The least I can do is to offer you respite from your long journey – and the harrowing sight of a man’s suffering. Though I imagine your line of work hardens you to some degree.”

“It does,” Fabius admitted, “though each failure of my skills is keenly felt. At least, in this instance, I can take solace in the fact that his pain was shortened along with his life. It would hardly have been fair to send him for public execution in such a state.”

“That’s true. The Emperor’s justice is a compassionate thing.” Horus chuckled, and speared a piece of meat with his knife. “Each man has his place, and each man has his _use_ – even a criminal.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself, my lord,” Fabius smiled, exposing his long, yellowed teeth. “And there is no better use. Why, I believe it may even confer some benefit of health.”

“Not with the amount he’s putting away,” Mortarion waved his knife at Angron, who growled from the middle of a pile of food. “Doctor, do you believe in that old thing about gaining power and knowledge from what you eat?”

“I should hope not,” Fabius replied, “otherwise we shall all have detailed memories of being a loaf of bread.”

The brothers shared various levels of amusement, and Fabius was thankful that he’d managed to endear himself to them over the years. There were no better allies, in his opinion – especially if one wanted to conduct less-than-savoury business on a regular basis.

“Who needs a criminal’s expertise anyway?” Horus concurred. “We’re practically experts ourselves. I assume you’ll make the records match up?”

“Of course, my lord. The poor man did die of natural causes, after all. I – we – simply assisted his passage; a merciful act. The gallows will lie empty, but it is for the best. Cthonia cannot be seen to be punishing those already on the verge of death.”

“Naturally,” Mortarion shrugged. “He could do with some more sauce, though.”


	13. In which necessity is not the mother of invention

“Mort, are you there?”

Mortarion looked up from his workbench as his brother approached. “I’m here.”

“What are you doing?”

“Mixing things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Must you know?”

“I must.” As ever, Fulgrim’s curiosity (as well as his smile, and the gentle hand laid on Mortarion’s shoulder) was irresistible.

“Well… I’m attempting to put together something that can make a man a little more… compliant.”

“I thought you’d already accomplished that?”

Mortarion chuckled and took a vial of dark violet fluid from a rack on the wall. “What, this?” He rolled it in his hand. “It’s not really compliance, is it? There’s no control.”

“It works, then?”

“What?”

Fulgrim reached over and plucked the vial out of his brother’s grasp with long fingers, studying it with interest. “This works.”

“I… well, it should be an improvement on the one I produced before, it’s roughly the same amount of….”

“Have you tested it? This one, I mean?”

The vial was dangled before Mortarion’s eyes.

“Not as such,” he admitted.

“Well, here’s your chance.”

“Ha,” Mortarion said. “Really? It might be….”

“You said the others were safe.”

“Safe? Yes, safe. Not _that_ effective, but safe.”

“So let’s try it. Are you afraid?”

“Of course not.” Mortarion rose from his seat, manoeuvring between his brother and the bench, and took the vial back. He removed the stopper, peering inside as if afraid the contents might jump out at him. “But, I… well, I could use someone else to check….”

“I won’t let anything happen to you.”

That smile was disarming in the extreme. And he _had_ been planning to test it, before his head was occupied by other things. And it _was_ true that the previous iterations had proved safe and at least partially effective.

Mortarion decided that he had nothing in particular to lose, and drained the liquid. It probably wouldn’t affect him, if the prior results were anything to go by.

“See?” he said, with a smile that was only slightly nervous. “Safe.”

Fulgrim said nothing and just leaned against the bench with folded arms as Mortarion sat down and returned to work, carefully crushing small red berries and adding them, piece by piece, into his latest concoction.

It was after a minute or so that he began to appreciate exactly how much his brother was distracting him. This wasn’t Fulgrim’s fault at all – he remained perfectly motionless – but Mortarion saw with rather startling clarity how long his legs were; how smooth his skin; how deep and dark his eyes.

“I beg your pardon, Mort?”

“What?”

“You’re staring at me, my dear. It’s not polite you know.”

“It’s….” He was about to say that it was hardly a crime, but his mouth was suddenly dry. Clearing his throat, he shoved his chair back and stood.

“How are you feeling?” Fulgrim circled in front of him, gazing intently into his eyes. “Do you need help?”

“Help?” Mortarion asked, more hoarsely than usual. “ _Help_?”

In one movement he swept the bench clear and slammed his brother against it, crushing their bodies together with a breathless and all-consuming hunger.

“So…” Fulgrim said, unsurprised by his suddenly prone position “it does work?”

Mortarion glared at him. The stuff was too powerful – or was this the right strength? His head wasn’t receiving enough resources to draw any kind of conclusion. “Of course it damn well works!”

“Thought so,” was the only comment.

Mortarion didn’t care. All he cared about was wrenching away the layers between them as quickly as possible. He pulled and groped and laid bruises on his brother’s skin that would be there for days, his ferocity astounding even himself.

\----

“I’d be inclined to suggest it would last longer in a more ordinary subject.”

“What?” Mortarion raised his head from his brother’s chest. The overwhelming _charge_ bestowed on him by the elixir had evaporated, and he was tired. Tired and sore. He’d been quite enjoying just resting there, awkwardly bent over the bench, having his head and neck gently caressed.

“Well, you’re more powerful than most. And you work through the effects of substances much faster. To be honest, with your resistance I was surprised it did anything for you at all.”

“Resistance to poison. Not this.”

Fulgrim’s laugh reverberated through Mortarion’s jawbone pleasantly.

“If you don’t want to be compromised in the future, perhaps you should start building up tolerance.”

“Only if you’re around to help.”

“What, and receive less and less each time? I wouldn’t count on it.”

Mortarion straightened suddenly, though his back protested. “You did this on purpose.”

“Not at all. I simply teased you, my dear,” that smirk was teasing enough by itself, “and you rose to the challenge quite admirably. You could have refused….”

“Well, I was fairly sure that….”

“Exactly. You knew it was safe, but hadn’t got round to a human subject yet. And you didn’t feel like having to deal with that level of, ah, _excitement_ , so you left it. Until you swallowed the stuff yourself.”

Mortarion eased away and began to tug his clothes back into place. “Perhaps I only did it because I wanted to throw you over the desk.”

“What, and knock an afternoon’s work onto the floor? Hardly likely.” Fulgrim sat up and performed his usual trick of going from just-ravished to completely respectable within seconds. “You knew where I’d be if you wanted a break. What you – and I – experienced was pure unrestrained desire, in liquid form.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

“It has potential, I have to say. You must tell me when you produce more.”

“Oh no. You’ll give it to the whole castle.”

“Would I do such a thing? In any case, there will be many who you’ll find willing to take it.” He slipped off the bench, kissed his brother on the cheek, and moved towards the door. “I may be back for more.”

It was only after he’d left that Mortarion thought to respond: “More of what, exactly?”

\----

“I think,” Magnus declared, “that we should retire to bed.”

“You read my mind.” Mortarion looked up from prodding the fire.

“Not on this occasion.” The sorcerer was followed out by the ever-attentive Lorgar, who came within inches of tripping him up on every step.

Horus just sat, staring into the flames. He had been tearing pieces off a missive from the Emperor and burning them, but now his hand rested motionless on the remains of the parchment.

“Aren’t you going?” Mortarion asked him.

“Hmm? With them? Oh, it’s not possible. Lorgar is getting possessive again. I’m surprised he even lets Magnus appear in company without some part of him wedged deep into his –.”

“No, I mean to bed. With your darling angel.”

“Well, I might.”

“I’m sure he’s waiting for you….”

“Hm. Yes, I’m sure he is.”

“Horus.” Mortarion leaned forward in his chair. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Horus said, so forcefully that Mortarion couldn’t help his suspicions.

“Indeed? Nothing?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure..?”

“Yes, damn it!” Horus thumped a fist onto his knee, further crumpling the words of their father.

“Calm down,” Angron said from his prone position on the hearth-rug.

“Don’t tell me to calm down! It’s you who needs to… ah, you’re in one of those moods. Sorry.”

Angron huffed and rolled over to warm his other side. “Good of you to notice. Bleeding that wretch for the ritual last night was all I needed. And making his friend watch.” He grinned with sharpened teeth. “A nice twist. Though hardly original.”

“What, now you’re a critic too?” Horus frowned at him. “The last thing I need is someone else picking apart my plans. ‘Don’t rush, Horus.’, ‘Don’t stick the knife in so far, Horus’…. He’ll drive me mad, one of these days.”

“He’s just anxious,” Mortarion said reassuringly. “All he wants is to have Ferrus back. You know that. It’s the only time they get to see each other.”

“They see each other every day.”

“One of them is a horse. It’s hardly the same. The ritual is their chance to be happy for a while. And, speaking of happy… isn’t it about time that you engaged in non-marital relations with our guest?”

“No,” Horus resumed his inspection of the fire. “He probably won’t wish to….”

“What do you mean? He probably will.”

“It’s alright.”

“Horus.” A smile started to infest one side of Mortarion’s face. “Is he too much for you?”

“Excuse me? No, he is not ‘too much’. Sometimes, I’ll admit, his demands can be a challenge, but isn’t that the intention? To test the boundaries of each other’s endurance….”

“Challenge?” Angron exclaimed. “Not when I had my turn….”

Sparks flew as Horus seized the poker and advanced on his brother with the intention of jamming it into an orifice. Angron growled, his fighting instinct returning, and stood his ground. Mortarion chose that moment to step between them.

“Horus, put that down. We’re all different; it’s no skin off your nose if Angron has can go for longer than – _put it down_! Angron, please run before he skewers you… thank you…” He grabbed Horus’s arm as Angron reluctantly retreated, preventing any damage from being done.

“Get a grip! Look, why don’t you just decline him? He’ll understand.”

“What, and lose him? Never!”

“You read Father’s letter; the Baalite chief won’t comply. They’re locked in a stalemate – you might have years to enjoy Sanguinius’ companionship.”

“That…” Horus put the poker down and receded into his seat. “Would be both a blessing and a curse.” He caught Mortarion’s eye, and quickly added: “But mostly a blessing.”

“Of course, brother. Now, see here.” Mortarion took a vial from his pocket. “I can give you this.”

Horus took it, hesitantly. “What is it?”

“It’s an invention of mine, that will provide you with some extra… potency. For the sake of your pride. If you’re so determined to match the angel’s appetite.”

“Does it really work?”

“Believe me,” Mortarion’s smirk was nothing short of accomplished. “I’ve tested it.”


	14. In which everyone gets a taste of heaven

“Are you comfortable like that?”

“I am, thank you.” He tugged the blanket loosely around his waist for a little extra warmth.

“Do you need another pillow?”

“No, your highness.”

“Oh, please. I only insist on titles with people I don’t like. May I touch your wings?”

“Of course.” Sanguinius extended a wing forward, where it could be grasped and explored. “I must request, though – don’t claw through the feathers or ruffle them, it’s very uncomfortable.”

The daemon prince nodded, and murmured happily as he embraced the wing and buried his face in the soft feathers. “You’re wonderful, my dear,” he said, words muffled and sending warm ghosts of breath through the lower layers of down, making the angel shiver. “You’re _divine_.”

“I’m glad you think that,” Sanguinius said, with only a trace of humour. He wasn’t trying to flatter the prince. It was a genuine pleasure to find people that saw his mutation as wonderful, rather than a subject to be avoided or a reason to mistrust him.

“I do, I do,” with the wing lying across them both, the prince’s hands stroked his neck, chest, waist; a gentle rub over his thigh; a curious finger traced around the extra joint at his back. Greedy for touch without being possessive. Horus had been a great deal rougher, but only out of excitement. Sanguinius tangled their legs together and leaned in for a kiss, which the prince was delighted to accept. They had already coupled once; there was no hurry to start again. He took the chance to slide his fingers into silver hair, its silky texture pleasing him as much as his feathers must please his partner. In his home, it was rare to find hair unbound and uncovered – and it would be even rarer to find someone who could touch him in such a manner. Here, there seemed to be fewer boundaries, at least in the lawless zone inhabited by the Emperor’s fallen sons.

“Oh, my angel….” The words were whispered against his lips by a voice brimming with adoration. They worshipped angels here, Horus had told him. Winged human figures were messengers from gods in the sky, defenders of the pure and righteous against dark forces. They didn’t steal your soul or cause dust storms or drain the blood of your cattle. They were all shapes and sizes, glowing and healthy, not stick-thin with grasping nails.

Sanguinius sighed as caresses descended over his stomach and circled his thumb on the spot where he’d once seen horns emerge from the prince’s scalp. He kissed the daemon again and pushed closer to hold him properly, returning the soft strokes in kind.

“When the full moon comes, would you like to meet Ferrus? Properly, I mean. In a form where he can be a little more… hospitable.”

“Yes,” was all that the angel said before their communication fell into incoherence.

\----

“Of all the aberrations of the body out here, I think mine are the largest.”

“You think?” Mortarion dropped the last of his clothing to the ground, with all the nonchalance he could muster – still a stiff and awkward set of movements to anyone’s eyes. He never usually showed much skin to anyone. His corrupted siblings were hardly judgemental, but old habits died hard.

“You say a series of accidents?”

“Accident and misadventure both. I was never a conventional child, and my… more unusual practices only grew in proportion to the damage I sustained.”

“You seem to have held together well.”

The angel was so earnest that it made him smile unexpectedly. “Really? No, admit it – I’m a wreck.”

“A wreck and a mutant.”

“Quite a pair, don’t you think?” He crossed to the side of the pool and sank into the water, easing out stiff muscles criss-crossed by marks of unclear origin. Sanguinius shifted up to accommodate him, then moved immediately close. Not staring, nor horrified. A good sign.

Even better, he carefully put an arm around Mortarion’s back.

“Are you this friendly to everyone?”

“Do you mean your brothers?” Before he could answer that yes, he must have meant that, the angel continued. “Yes. You are very well bound, as a group… but I think they are in need of affection. Does that make me sound _calculating_? I didn’t mean it in that sense. I like you all, in your own ways, and I like to show that. And here… I have more freedom than ever before.”

“You mean you can rut with Horus whenever the fancy takes you?”

“I can,” he acknowledged almost coyly. “Although the fancy takes me, as you say, more than it takes him sometimes.”

“Does it, now?”

“I thought that was why you gave him that draught?”

Mortarion was surprised at this deduction, but smirked and grasped the angel’s hand amicably. “Now what makes you think that was from me?”

“You make things of that nature. And Fulgrim went to see you. And when I told him about Horus, he laughed so hard. But thank you. It does work.”

“Good to know. Don’t mention it to Horus, though. I know everyone knows about his failing to meet your needs – but it’s vital that we keep up the illusion of secrecy. It’ll avoid a lance to his fragile ego.”

“He doesn’t need it too much. Now he appears to have learned more about me.”

“I think we’ve all learned quite a bit about you…” Mortarion intended that to sound lewd, but it came out as more along the lines of sentimentality, and he was aware of looking very deep into Sanguinius’ eyes. “I…erm, that’s a good thing, certainly.” A light brush of feathers against his shoulder – the wings being held up out of the way of the water – and the temptation was strong to wrap the angel in his arms and hold tight (as he held Konrad when the visions came, though the latter would sometimes bite and scratch). After all, neither minded his scars.

\----

“I can’t be physically touching you, you understand. He won’t let me.”

“I understand.” Sanguinius knelt before Magnus, between the prince’s spread knees. Lorgar hovered at his side, close enough to brush an arm against his wings. “I know the abilities of your mind are more than good enough. I am at your service.”

He patted Magnus’s foot gently, and Lorgar _growled_.

“Can I not touch his body at all, then? Is that your rule?”

“It’s fine,” Magnus said, a trifle wearily. “He overreacts. I will decide what to do with my physical form, and all he can do is watch.”

He challenged Lorgar with his many-coloured eyes, and Sanguinius fluttered a little.

“Perhaps, if you touch him, I could touch you,” he said to the smaller of the two. Lorgar considered it.

“In what way do you mean?”

“Anything you wish. I could support you as you take your pleasure from him, or claim you at the same time, or... many things, really. Quite a few more than you would think of at first.”

“By the gods,” Magnus muttered under his breath, “Horus was right.”

“What has Horus been saying about me?” Sanguinius asked pleasantly, having to tilt his head back as Lorgar ravished his neck, nearly tipping him over.

“Many, many things,” Magnus assured him. The angel took a moment to pull Lorgar closer, embrace and caress him, and alter their positions so the preacher sat in front. He wrapped his wings around Lorgar’s shoulders and was amused by the reaction to that. Interacting with a divine being made flesh, it seemed, was an ethereal experience in more ways than one.

“Now it’s your choice,” he said, close to a willing ear, “what do you want to do?”

\----

Perturabo knew that his brothers found the angel irresistible – and so did he, but not in the same way they did. It took a long time, of waiting, of observation, of watching his siblings (especially Horus) steal the ethereal beauty away to their rooms to indulge in untold pleasures, before the moment was right and his courage was there to ask.

“Can I draw you?”

Sanguinius smiled, and that was answer enough. Perturabo felt warm inside in a way that he hadn’t for a long time. Not too long. But long enough to notice.

“Of course you can.”

His musculature was fascinating, because of his wings. The mutations made him wonderful, and Perturabo felt like he was wearing the concept out with how many times he told the angel that, over the course of an afternoon. But it was true. Sanguinius thanked him, and added that within the royal family of his tribe, they were seen as a powerful omen. Something to be feared, as well as celebrated.

“I don’t fear you,” Perturabo said, making a bold mark on a clean board. He wanted every possible angle, so if they lost the angel, he could still gaze in wonder. Perhaps he could make a sculpture, and a pact with some dark master would see it come to life.

“I know that. None of you fear me. None of you treat me like royalty, either.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“It’s a fact. And I like it. I mean that you treat me with respect. But not subservience. You are royalty yourselves, am I right?”

“We’re meant to be,” Perturabo said uncomfortably. He, of all of them, had felt it the least, even when it was true. He didn’t want to be venerated. He just wanted to be left alone. The ruling could be done by Horus, or Dorn. They were emperors-in-training. He had failed at the first hurdle. “But we’re not any more. Not officially. Still by birth right. It’s… complicated. I won’t bore you with the details.”

At least, not the details of that. “Am I boring you? Just drawing?”

“No,” Sanguinius said, and shifted on his stool. His wings had the sun behind them, so he glowed. Perturabo would not be surprised if the radiance carried on, even into nightfall. “I like this.”

“You don’t want to do something else? _Anything_?”

“Don’t feel that you have to make that offer. I know you don’t want to.”

Perturabo blushed, and was glad he could hide behind his easel. “But if you wanted to….”

“You needn’t put yourself through that.” His voice was kind as always, but firm. “I can go to one of the others. I can share your bed just for warmth, if you want that.”

“I do,” Perturabo agreed. “But first, I need to finish this.”

\----

“I wish I could fly,” Curze said, and raked his fingers through the feathers. Sanguinius bit him for that, and he laughed. There was an answering rumble from the sky, a threat of torrential rain. The air was thick and heavy and what they were doing didn’t help, but they did it anyway, on top of the highest battlement, as the storm gathered closer.

“Really?” The angel pulled him closer, tangling their limbs together. They could be struck by lightning up here, but Curze found he didn’t mind the thought of that. He felt like he could survive such a thing, as long as he had Horus’s angel to hold. He felt invincible. “You already can fly. That’s what the people say, in the town around the palace. You come down on black wings like leather and snatch their children away if they do bad things.”

Curze snorted. “I can’t fly. And I don’t snatch children. Sometimes entire families, yes – but those who sin can pay their own price; I don’t care about the mewling rats they spawn in the meantime.”

“They say you have eyes that glow red and long claws.”

“Now, that part might be true,” although his eyes were black, and always had been. “But the more the stories go round, the more they fear me, and that’s a good thing.”

“Don’t you have laws in your empire, to punish people?”

“We do. But that only works if they’re seen doing it. Or if they can’t weasel their way out of it in some fashion.” He bared his teeth, savagely. “Nobody will escape me. They know that. They will do what our father wants, because his son will bleed them dry if they don’t.”

“Is that why you’re out here?”

“Because it’s more convenient for him? Yes. That, and other things.”

Sanguinius didn’t seem interested in knowing what those other things were. He just held Curze in his arms, and stroked his back between the shoulders as if willing wings to appear.

\----

“Giving in to temptation, I see.”

Horus jerked in surprise, and almost strained something valuable. He let go hastily and pulled across his clothing, although there was little point trying to hide it.

“Go away.”

Magnus smirked at his furious expression. “I know, Horus, it’s terrible. Can’t a man at least have some peace and quiet to hide in the shadow of a doorway and take himself in hand while he watches his beloved and his brother wrestling in the courtyard?”

Horus sighed angrily, but decided to press his point. “Yes, Magnus. I _would_ appreciate some peace and quiet. Wouldn’t you do the same?” He gestured outside. “I’m fairly certain that you would.”

“Perhaps.” Magnus looked out. Sanguinius had pinned Angron, somehow, and they were snarling at each other with smiles behind it. Not quite fighting, and it was getting less and less like combat as time went on. They had bruised and scratched each other, but nothing more than that – Angron was clearly mediating his strength, and the angel gave as good as he got. A surprisingly capable warrior, for a spoiled foreign prince. Despite that, Horus steadfastly refused to imagine him in armour; the sights he was presented with here were noble and glorious enough.

His hand reached downwards again, before a gentle cough reminded him that Magnus was still there.

“Look,” Horus said, “either get your own out, or just go. You’re ruining it. And if you do decide to make the most of this, do it quickly before Lorgar finds you and combusts with jealousy.”

Defeated by this succession of truths, Magnus disappeared. Or perhaps just made himself invisible. It didn’t matter to Horus – as long as he stayed quiet.


	15. In which it all goes south

Horus marched up to the angel who sat, wings outstretched, basking in a rare moment of sunshine. He would have stern words with their ‘guest’… as soon as he finished staring at ruffled feathers and lustrous hair, delicate curves and a serene smile and remembered what he was going to say.

It took a few minutes.

“Do you have to be so _nice_ to them, all the time?”

“Hmm?” Sanguinius opened his eyes, and Horus found it even harder to be annoyed with him. “If you’re talking about the prisoners you have, I’m only trying to help.”

“Well, you’re not helping. You’re being civil and pleasant and understanding to men who deserve little, if any, of those.”

“Your brothers are nice to them.”

“Only the pretty ones, the psychic ones and the ones that squeal loud enough. In that order. Half of those wretches are in love with you already, and the other half haven’t met you yet.”

“Are you jealous, perhaps?”

“No!” Horus snapped, unconvincingly. “I would just rather you didn’t go about bringing light and happiness into what is supposed to be a place of misery and despair.”

“But perhaps I can help them,” the angel insisted. “In my home, we can’t lock people away in another place – we travel, we have to live together. We punish criminals, but if they aren’t dead then they have to come with us. So we talk to them, and understand them, and include them again.”

“That might work in Baal. It doesn’t apply here.”

“I think it can work everywhere. People have some good in them, even if -.”

“You seem to believe so strongly in the inherent goodness of men.”

“And you seem to believe in their evil. Their willingness to be corrupted.”

“That’s because it’s true,” Horus asserted. “Men will always fall. They will always be tempted and tainted. Evil is mundane, it’s everywhere, it presents itself in myriad forms. There’s a man in there who stole a field of sheep – and another who killed and ate his own mother. Can you tell the difference between them?”

“Can _you_?”

“That’s not the point!” Or maybe it was. Sanguinius was getting the better of him – not only in intellectual terms, but with the unfair advantage of Horus’s mind going slowly blank whenever he was faced by such overwhelming beauty. He snorted and looked away, unwilling to debate.

“We are the custodians of the damned, and nothing more. You’d do well to follow my advice.”

“I know.” The change in tone caught Horus by surprise, and he glanced up to see the angel’s gaze sunk to the floor, his face drawn. “I’m sorry, Horus. I’m sorry that you have to live here, like this. It hurts me.”

“It’s our own fault. Apparently.”

“Perhaps you could ask your father to….”

“That old curmudgeon? He’ll never take me back – you talk about seeing good in people? He sees nothing in me except failure.”

“But he still has hope for you….”

“You lived with him for less than a year. And absorbed his lies, evidently. You know nothing of what happened before.”

“I think you could persuade him you’ve changed.” Sanguinius stood and approached Horus, taking his hands. “After all, you have.”

“How so?” Horus couldn’t help but smile.

“You now have a purpose.”

“I do?”

“Don’t pretend. Lorgar said that you wanted to marry me.”

“I -.” He couldn’t deny it, and cursed Lorgar’s loose tongue for uttering something other than prophecies and insanities. “Yes. I would like to marry you.”

“Then tell your father. Go back to the capital, take me with you. He won’t be able to refuse a marriage between our provinces….”

\----

“I can’t believe it!” Horus raged, pacing before his siblings.

“I’m guessing that you’re not allowed to go?” Curze interjected, inching towards the door.

“He didn’t say that, exactly. But he said as much! And then takes my angel away! To ‘discuss’ it! To feed him with propaganda, more likely. Threaten and torment him until he forgets the love we had and turns into their puppet!”

“It’s unlikely he’ll forget the love you had,” Fulgrim said reassuringly.

“I certainly won’t,” Magnus muttered.

Horus glared at him, too enraged to be proud of keeping his brother awake with psychic backlash.

“You’re all terrible! I’m tempted to think you let this happen, to deny me happiness! You’re all in it together….”

He stopped, and looked at the assembled faces.

“Where are the twins?”

“Damned if I know,” Magnus shrugged, unconcerned. “I can’t find them. They’ve probably gone to the capital to poke around.”

“Well, find them! We can’t trust them! I can’t trust any of you! Especially you!” he stabbed a finger at Curze, who had nearly made it out of the room unnoticed. “Ranting about goodness-knows-what every time you get the chance.”

“So does he,” Curze responded bitterly, indicating Lorgar.

“Yes, but he’s a preacher and a madman -.”

“A good combination,” Mortarion added.

“- and you’re neither. You might appear mad, but you know what you’re doing. Until these _visions_.”

“They’re just fits,” Curze snarled.

“Fits where you talk about our father and brothers? Fits where you claim to see a vast golden palace and a burning sky? Fits where you travel among the stars with tiny men?”

“Yes!” the Night Haunter snapped. “Yes, they are fits! I have a nervous affliction! And at least I have an excuse for spouting nonsense! You don’t!”

“Excuse me?”

“What about him?” Konrad’s accusatory gesture landed on Lorgar again. “He speaks of the burning sky too! And you -,” at Magnus, “and you -,” at Mortarion, “you talk in your sleep….”

“I didn’t know you two were sleeping in close proximity,” Lorgar exclaimed.

“I did,” Fulgrim said.

Curze rounded on him. “So do you! You mutter about smoke and poison and death and glory and it means _nothing_!”

“So why are you getting so worked up?” Horus asked him.

Curze halted, trembling, his hands clutched into white-knuckled fists.

“Don’t pick on me, Horus. That’s… that’s all. Don’t try to single me out as insane, when you’re all just as bad. There’s rot and corruption here and you know it. We’ll die of our own depravities and Father won’t care. Just as he doesn’t care about your precious angel.”

The colour drained out of Horus’s face, and that was when the fight started.

\----

“Don’t try to oppose me, Sanguinius.”

“But why?” the angel stood rigid across from him, teeth bared. “Why did you remove me?”

“I had to,” the Emperor said patiently.

“No, you didn’t! I was making him happy! I was changing him -.”

“Bringing him to the capital would upset the balance. You know that. He would have to meet with Russ, and Dorn, and Roboute again, and that would be difficult.”

“He’s already encountered Roboute.”

“Briefly, and with a definite goal in mind. To orchestrate interaction between all of them would be… problematic.”

“You’re the lord of this domain! You can make it happen!”

“I have no idea why you’re so determined to go to live there….”

“Because it would stabilise him. It would be his path to redemption.”

“Or your path to damnation, quite possibly.”

“I can handle it! I can make a life for myself there. _Please._ We can make this work.”

The Emperor shook his head.

“I have already removed you once. I cannot run the risk of doing it again. And Horus is dangerous.”

“Even more so, now he’s been denied! Why are you keeping him away like this?”

“I have sent Russ to negotiate with him,” the Emperor said with an air of finality.

That stopped Sanguinius in his tracks.

“Let me go back there.”

\----

Horus didn’t know who was hitting him and didn’t care. He seized Curze and hurled him against the wall, tearing the hangings and bringing them down on another part of the melee. They were all fighting each other, indiscriminately, without care or concern. It always happened, and they always healed in time.

Curze choked and hissed under Horus’s grip, not entirely out of air just yet.

“You see it too,” he growled. “The burning sky. The roads to the distance. The thunder in the ground.”

“Shut up,” Horus said coldly.

Curze laughed, and blood trickled from his split lips. “But you do. You see it. We all do. Are we mad? I think so.”

“Shut up!” Horus tightened his grip.

“We see… them flying… the giants….”

The world lurched and Horus let go of his brother, falling to his knees. It was a sensation of spinning, of tumbling, with no physical motion. It felt like the falls he took in dreams, before jerking awake in his own bed.

_The burning sky… the beams in the darkness… the roaring in the air…._

Then Magnus’s hand was on him, and the sensation faded away.

“Sorry,” the sorcerer said, “I must have been overly excited. Psychic backlash.”

As Horus got to his feet, he considered the idea that they might all be getting worse.

He wanted his angel back, to make him feel good again.


	16. In which it all comes north

Magnus looked out from the highest battlement, his single eye blinking away the softly falling rain.

“The wolves are coming,” he said.

“Really?” Horus peered through the drizzle. “Is this all because I wanted to marry him?”

“Who knows? Perhaps Konrad has overstepped his bounds once again. Or some word of my practices has reached our father’s ears.”

“Or maybe he truly wants to welcome us back home,” Horus chuckled at the slim likelihood that that was true. “He recognises that we did nothing wrong, and will return me to my rightful place as heir to his empire.”

“ _Some_ of us did nothing wrong,” Magnus corrected.

“And yet Father sends Leman to drag us back like fallen game. Ah, no matter. If things get ugly, we can easily send them home with tails between their legs – to tell him to come and face us in person instead of hiding behind our brother and his mangy hounds.”

“How would he react to that, I wonder?”

“You’re the diviner. You tell me.”

“I’m not entirely sure that they’re here for open confrontation.”

“Then why are they here at all?”

Magnus couldn’t offer an answer to that.

\----

As it happened, they barely saw the wolves – only as shadows in the night, turned fleeting and elusive by the shivering flames.

“RUSS!” Horus bellowed, swinging his sword in blind rage. He didn’t care if he stuck down enemies or fleeing prisoners. “Come here! Fight me like a man!”

Russ was nowhere to be seen.

The gateway was full of humans clamouring to get out of the way. Some were trapped inside, condemned to die screaming in the fire. Others ran for the chill darkness of the woods, and still others swarmed around the princes, the only leaders that they had ever known.

“Horus!” Magnus had Lorgar over one shoulder, the preacher wailing something inaudible and desperate. “Get away from there!”

A stone split with an almighty bang. Horus dodged out of the way as a lintel collapsed in a spray of sparks, narrowly missing his cloak.

They had been dressed and armoured, prepared to meet the wolves at dawn.

They had not been prepared to meet them like this.

Perturabo barged past the crowd, running less out of fear and more out of disgust and exasperation. He wanted to be as far away as possible. Everything he had worked on was burning and he wanted no part of it.

A hand grabbed Mortarion’s sleeve and he looked down and saw one of the army of the damned – one of the six that had survived. The slimy, underhanded wretch with the scarred face, a favourite of his brother.

“Lucius,” he said, more calmly than he felt. The fire raged, hypnotising him.

“What’s up there?”

“Pardon?”

“What’s up there?” the traitor shouted at him. “In your workshop!”

“Emperor’s blood!” Mortarion suddenly remembered the stills, the pipes, the fuels, the pots and barrels of unknown substances that he had worked on for so many years. “Run!”

His warning was heeded by some, but not all.

The explosion tore what remained of the roof away, and debris rained down on and around the refugees. Horus had attained some control over them; now they ran in one direction, following him into the forest.

“Horus,” Curze sprinted up beside them, panting. “Horus, the trees are catching.”

“Keep running!”

“Didn’t it rain?”

“Some of them will go up anyway. Just run!”

They halted, once they could get no further. Their charges, sinners and wretches to a man, collapsed around them.

The woods were alive with howls and screams and the hollow rushing of the fire.

“What do we do?” Lorgar demanded, to nobody in particular. “What do we do?”

“We fight them!” Angron brandished both of his axes, his reluctance to let them go finally forming an advantage. “They show their faces and we slaughter them like the dogs they are!”

A mocking howl sounded nearby and Angron answered it with a roar of his own.

“Russ!” Horus yelled. “Come out so I can take your head myself!”

“The twins.” Magnus looked up. “They’re gone.”

His comment was ignored, as the wolves circled around.

“They’ve taken our home,” Fulgrim said impatiently. “They’ve taken our life’s work and most of our men. What else do they want?”

“They’ll kill us!” Lorgar cried, grabbing at his brother’s cloak only to be pushed away.

“He’s right,” Curze said, brandishing a long knife. “Father always hated us. It seems he’s about to be rid of us for good.”

“NO!” Horus took a swing at one of Russ’s men who dared to get too near, sending him springing back into the shadows. “I won’t let that happen! I’ll go to the palace and challenge him myself before I let us die here!”

“Horus, we can’t! We have nothing! We couldn’t get halfway – we’ve only got one horse for heaven’s sake, and he’s my partner!”

“We’ll still fight our way out! Come on! You can take daemon forms!”

His siblings looked at him and saw their own madness reflected in his eyes.

“Very well,” Mortarion acknowledged. “We fight….”


	17. A Diversion

And so, the story ends.

At least, in the first version of this AU. The fate of the Daemon Princes was to be left completely ambiguous. Then, I had an idea for an ending that just _wouldn't_ _go away,_ no matter how much I tried to persuade it that it was the biggest cop-out I'd ever seen, and the second biggest cliche in the Writer's Compendium of Terrible Cliches - the biggest being, naturally, 'and they woke up and it was all a dream'.

It's still a _good_ ending, but it completely subverts everything you ever supposed was going on, and prevents any further plot from happening without some major changes. And so, when the time came that the medieval plot bunnies in their guinea-pig scale mail (you know the picture I mean) were hopping around again, I had to choose. Tie up the AU with that ending, or continue it with a different conclusion to the Epic Russ Fight, and thus allow it to grow.

I chose the latter, and that's what I'm putting on here: the chapters following (some still in progress) will be in the same vein as everything before, leading up to another (as yet undecided) ending. If it ever ends. You know how these things are.

However, if you do want to read the first ending (and are suitably prepared for a plot twist that would have M Night Shyamalan rolling his eyes and going 'really?'), it's posted [HERE](http://marbleunderthefridge.tumblr.com/post/87278226444/last-exam-today-friday-so-the-castle-au-part)

 

(Also, if you've got this far... congratulations, I suppose? Stay tuned for more medieval-fantasy-style shenanigans, plus the appearance of a few more primarchs.)


	18. In which lessons are possibly learned

_As many wolves that came for them were cut down, and more besides, but it proved in vain. The Emperor retrieved his fallen sons, and sent them for reform within the church._

_Different sections of the church, that is. No point having them all together. That’s how heresy happens._

 

“Poverty, chastity, piety _and_ obedience? Can’t you just pick one?”

The abbot sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Look my L- my son, as much as you may dislike our lord Emperor’s decision for you to join this order, his edict still stands. And you must take your vows.”

“Is it possible to leave out the chastity part?”

“No. I should say, further, that we have already been more than generous in allowing you to keep your hair, and… certain other aspects of your appearance. But here, we choose to live our lives in the service of the gods and of the saints, and to abide by certain rules.”

“Of course - who am I to argue with your decisions? It’s your life, you may live it chastely if you wish. But _I_ have lived _my_ life with a succession of generously appointed lovers, and I don’t want that to end.”

“If I may be so bold, it has already ended….”

\----

“Brother, I….”

“You’re not my brother.” The words were snarled in the monk’s face.

“Not in a familial sense… but as ordained by the Order ….”

“No!” Angron spat. “You’re not my brother. Horus is. Konrad is. And I want to be back with them.”

“The Emperor decreed that….”

“His pretty words mean nothing!” Angron slammed his fist into the wall, and a gentle shower of masonry decorated the rosebush below. “I was happy there!”

“You were living in sin,” the fellow novice squeaked, and almost failed to make it out of the way.

“That’s the second time he’s threatened to destroy the gardens,” one elderly monk observed to another, watching from a high window.

“I hardly wish to question the Emperor’s wisdom,” the other said, “but perhaps it would have been better to leave him….”

\----

“You need new shoes,” was the first thing that Vulkan told his fellow blacksmith, making a quick inspection. There was no response. “What? Don’t give me that look.”

He walked around behind, keeping a hand on his friend’s back. “Come in – I think I’ve got some your size.”

The stature of his companion was such as to fill the doorway. Vulkan poked around in a corner until he found what he was looking for.

“Come here, I’ll get you fitted. Come on.”

His friend wavered at the threshold in a way that conveyed the utmost reluctance.

“Ferrus, please. I know it’s embarrassing but you need these. And there’s nobody else around, is there?”

The giant horse huffed and came to stand by the anvil, lacking the fear that most animals had of the heat and the noise of the furnace. He offered his feet willingly enough, and stood patiently while Vulkan filed the edges down.

The blacksmith’s legs began to tremble, just a little. “Ferrus, you’re leaning on me. Stop it.”

Ferrus shifted back upright to avoid crushing him. Vulkan had rarely worked on such a huge beast and was beginning to wonder if the shoes he had were indeed big enough. He had to take a break between the filing and the fitting, and afterwards sat down, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Well, there you go. Happy?”

Lifting each foot in turn, Ferrus seemed satisfied. He clicked his new shoes on the floor a couple of times, as if testing the sound, and twitched his tail – which reminded Vulkan of something.

“Your hair needs cutting as well – I mean, your mane. And your tail, and your feathers. Is there nobody to do that for you?”

If a horse could have raised its eyebrows, Ferrus would have done. He just laid his ears back and lowered his head.

“Ah yes, I’m sorry. I know he used to…. But I’m sure he’s alright, wherever he is. And we’ll find Magnus, or some other magician, and make you human again.” Ferrus came closer, and Vulkan stroked his friend’s nose. “It’ll be fine. Would you like an apple?”

“Forge-Master.” A page in Imperial livery appeared at the door, and Ferrus turned to peer at him.

“You’re not the Forge-Master anymore,” Vulkan said quietly in the horse’s ear. “I am. I took over after you ‘disappeared’.”

Ferrus snorted.

“Sorry,” Vulkan addressed the page, “I was just….”

“Talking to your horse?”

“He’s not m- yes, I was. They’re intelligent creatures, you know.”

The page looked sceptical. “Our Lord Emperor requires your skills to produce a gift for the visiting Khan.”

“Is that it?”

The page thrust a sheet at him, “This should tell you all you need.”

Vulkan took it with as little care as he dared to show to a communication from the Emperor. “I should get started, then.”

With a suspicious backward glance at Ferrus, the page left. Vulkan was studying the specifications and felt breath on his shoulder.

“You can read like that?” He held it up anyway for Ferrus to see. “I’m not letting you help me. I’ll kick you out of here so you can’t give me judgmental looks; I’m not an apprentice anymore.”

Ferrus seized the back of Vulkan’s shirt in his teeth and gave it a tug.

“Fine, you can stay. But go and stand in the corner.”

\----

“A. Silent. Order.” Horus hissed, through the tiny window.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Sanguinius said, fluttering a little. “Your father seems to have a cruel sense of humour.”

“Cruel indeed, if he lets you escape long enough to visit me as well. Giving me a taste of the paradise I was denied.”

The angel shifted his grip and reached across the sill; there was room for their fingers to touch.

“I’ll talk to him.”

“You’re a political hostage, though. And there’s no way we can marry now.”

“Maybe his mind will change, in time.”

“He or I will be dead before then,” Horus predicted confidently. “Him from old age, and me driven to insanity by the company of muted bores and a vow of silence….”

Sanguinius looked downcast. Or perhaps he just looked down, clinging as he was to the outer wall of the building, conveyed there by his wings.

“I’ll try to see you as often as I can.”

“Be careful. If he catches wind of it, you’ll be sent to some hellish pit on the borders.”

“He already tried that,” the angel said, “and look what happened.”

\----

“Petition my father,” Lorgar muttered, “petition… enter a plea. Not plead with. Never….”

He dumped the stakes down on the pile. Straightening up, working out the kinks in his back, he glanced over to the end of the row, where another pile waited for him, and made the mistake of catching the foreman’s eye.

“Lorgar! Get moving.”

No title, no honorific. No recognition and no appreciation. No oratory or audience… and no paper.

His memory was good enough to compose speeches in his head, but they lacked the refinement of trial and editing, and he despaired that they would ever be committed to the page. He hoisted another bundle of stakes onto his shoulder and trudged onwards.

“Emperor’s blood!” someone cried, as a mule made a sudden attempt to kick them for their troubles. They grunted at the near miss and spat on the ground. Lorgar winced.

No sophistication. He could have stood if it if his purpose was to bring the Emperor’s word to these people, but instead they were the ones supposedly educating him. There was no room in their lives for proper veneration or extended contemplation.

Lorgar couldn’t see what his father had intended here.

It had been quite a shock, seeing the empire in such good health. It almost, but not quite, shook his devotion loose from Magnus to adhere once again to their ruler, his sire. But the dispersal of the brothers, Russ’s swaggering, the Emperor’s firm insistence on some form of punishment… it was too much to ignore. Magnus was still there, and he was still strong. He was locked away, but Lorgar would find him. There was no crisis of faith here. Perhaps they were a little too far apart to communicate easily, but Lorgar’s power was growing every day he was forced to exist in this filthy scraping of a settlement.

Magnus often came to him in his dreams, and that was good.

Apparently Horus was planning something, and that was also good.

Lorgar weighed one of the stakes in his hand, and concentrated for a moment until the thick yard of wood became as light as a quill for him to wield. To escape and free Magnus, he might have to become an army on his own. His brothers could manage it, so why ever not?


	19. In which escapes are made and ravens are troubled

“Let me guess,” the Keeper of Ravens said, as soon as Vulkan opened his mouth to speak, “you want a favour from me.”

He turned from his desk, dark eyes gleaming in the dim light. Slim and angular and clad perpetually in black, he looked rather like a raven himself – nobody was sure whether it was a result of his profession, or the very thing that drove him to take up the post.

“I do,” Vulkan admitted, feeling a little cramped in this tower-top room, surrounded by parchment and birds. He shifted his large frame around and was pecked for his troubles. “Ouch. I… need you to change something.”

“You’re effectively asking me to countermand the Lord Emperor’s orders?”

“No… maybe. Maybe yes.”

The Keeper of Ravens gave him a long, searching look.

“Please, Corvus. Just this once. Again.”

“It seems ‘once’ is a different quantity to you than it is to me,” the thin man replied. “But what is it?”

“They want a smith to visit the Holy Emperor’s Order Ascetic, to provide guidance for the one they have at the monastery and bring some new tools. Gabriel was chosen, and he’s a fine craftsman – but I want it to be me instead. Tell them that I’m coming.”

Corvus cocked his head in interest. “Why?”

“It’s… a long story. I’ll not burden you with it until I get back, it’s….” Corvus was staring at him, making no move to alter anything. “It will seem too strange, I can’t….”

A raven fluttered through the window and hopped about on its perch, cawing for attention. Still no movement from the other man.

“Fine, I’ll tell you now!”

Corvus just smiled benignly and went to work retrieving the message from the bird’s leg. “Quickly, then. Someone will have seen this arrive.”

“Well – the previous Forge-Master, Ferrus. You know that he was in love with one of the Lord Emperor’s sons,” (Corvus muttered something about everyone knowing that), “and that he had to make certain… drastic decisions when the prince got sent away. And now he’s back. But he was put in the Order Ascetic by his father – and Ferrus is stuck in the _other form_ by the sorcery of Lord Magnus and I have no idea where _he_ is….”

“So you’re reuniting the doomed lovers for a short period.”

“Yes,” Vulkan concluded a little breathlessly. “Yes, I am. Only one of them is a horse.”

“The Traitor Princes are evil and corrupt, as we’ve all been told. Why should I help you?”

“Ferrus is my friend.”

“ _Ferrus_ no longer exists. He disappeared just after the exile of the dishonoured sons; you took over as Forge-Master. He might be dead, for all I know.”

“But you know better!” Vulkan took a step forward, disturbing a couple of ravens. “Please. They were happy together and I can’t deny them that chance, just for a little while….”

“You have no say in that matter, surely. Who are you to decide that they deserve -?”

Vulkan surged at him and he retreated in alarm, knocking into a perch. Feathers flew and birds scattered and Vulkan had him effectively pinned – but it was desperation driving the blacksmith’s body and not anger.

“ _Please_. It’s such a small thing, for such a benefit. Ferrus is moping about and I don’t even want to imagine what the Prince is feeling – and he might be corrupt but he never once hurt any of us, did he? _Did he?_ ” Vulkan resisted the urge to shake Corvus, but still clutched handfuls of his clothing. A few feathers clung to both their forms.

The door creaked open and a page entered.

“Sir, I….”

He stopped short at the sight of them.

Corvus angrily pushed Vulkan away, scowling at the wide-eyed page, who managed to whisper something about Crown Prince Dorn. He retrieved the relevant message from the dozens pinned to the walls and practically threw the poor boy out, slamming the door in a way that made the ravens shuffle and croak nervously.

“So…” Vulkan awkwardly dusted himself off. “Will you do it?”

“Yes I’ll do it,” Corvus snapped. “But only because I like you. Expect to have all your messages in future delivered by chickens, now get out of my sight.”

Vulkan did, thinking that this could have gone much better.

\----

The monastery sat atop a small and desolate spear of coastline, the largest building for miles around. The Order Ascetic didn’t do things by halves: every stone used in the construction of their home had been cut by a member of the Order, thrice sanctified and heaved into place by their hands, raising walls among wiry, twisted shrubs and meandering paths. There were gardens within; the soil was good enough – but the sheep wandering outside were lean and hardy beasts, cropping tough plants with an air of determination. They stared at Vulkan as he came through, before reluctantly moving off the road to let his cart pass.

“Here we are,” Vulkan said to his horse (although he never thought of Ferrus as his, not really). As the gates to the monastery were opened by the action of some unseen hand, he took a moment to observe the countryside and shivered, drawing his cloak tighter around him. Though it was a sunny spring day, the wind from the sea was strong enough to sweep any warmth away.

The main courtyard was more sheltered but in no way less barren. Vulkan was greeted by the abbot – an old and weathered man, and the only one whose face could be seen. The rest went hooded and largely stayed out of his way, with the exception of a neophyte ordered to hold the reins.

“We are honoured to receive you, Forge-Master,” the abbot nodded to him, and Vulkan smiled in return (though it was mostly as a result of hearing a quiet ‘hello, darling’ from behind).

“It’s an honour to be here.”

“Come with me; I’ll show you to your quarters.” He turned briefly to the robed figure by the cart. “See the Forge-Master’s horse to the stables – and don’t get up to any mischief.”

“As you wish, Father.”

Vulkan hid surprise at being witness to that exquisite voice again so soon. It held contempt and restlessness underneath the dour obedience; nuances only apparent to those who had spent many hours in his company. There was a hint of a smile, too, just about visible under the hood as Vulkan followed the abbot into the chill gloom of the monastery.

\----

To all others, it would appear that their brother was murmuring to the horse to keep it calm. He took his time leading it into the stable block (privately thought much more comfortable than the cells provided for the humans in the Order).

“How are you, my darling?”

The horse turned deep brown eyes upon him, and Fulgrim remembered that Ferrus’s human eyes were the same grey as the boundary of the sky and the sea when storms were rolling in.

“Keeping well? Still eating stolen fruit every chance you get?”

Warm breath nearly dislodged his hood as Ferrus nosed at his cheek. He chuckled quietly enough not to draw attention and tugged the reins a little.

“You’ll get me in trouble, shh.” He stroked Ferrus’s neck and began to divest him of the harness. “Have you been human again since we parted?”

Ferrus shook his head.

“Oh, sweetheart…. But don’t worry. Magnus told me where he is, and maybe we can get him – or there’ll be something in his books….”

A snort was the only answer. Ferrus pawed at the ground a couple of times, and Fulgrim tapped him lightly on the flank.

“It’s alright for you,” he hissed. “You get to live with Vulkan and wander round the palace grounds. I’m stuck here. They feed us next to nothing, and I have to dig plots and pull turnips and sweep floors all day in this -,” he plucked at his habit, “ _abomination_ of itchy wool. I’m sick of it, and….”

The weight of Ferrus pushing him against the wall effectively ended his tirade.

“Is everything alright?” Another monk poked his head around the door – all he saw was a fellow ascetic being jostled by an indignant horse.

“Quite alright, brother,” Fulgrim assured him, with what air he had left.

Ferrus squashed him a little more, then let him go and stood there innocently, twitching his bound-up tail.

“Don’t do that again, or I’ll tell Vulkan to have you gelded.” His anger melted with the pained look that Ferrus gave him. “Very well, I won’t do that… but behave.” He rubbed the horse’s chin and planted a soft kiss on his nose. “I should go. Hopefully I’ll get to see you again soon.”

Neither of them wanted to let go. Fulgrim leaned against Ferrus for a few moments more and closed his eyes, thinking of long nights spent curled up in the warmth of the stable to keep his partner company before the full moon reunited them.

“I’ll get out of here. And I’ll find the books and turn you back, I promise.”

Ferrus couldn’t reply to that, but he bent his head close and nuzzled the prince’s shoulder instead.

\----

The Order Ascetic lived to a strict routine, as was necessary to efficiently serve the Holy Emperor. For instance, every brother would wake at dawn and retire to bed at dusk, food was distributed according to strict rationing directions, and private meals were very rarely interrupted by junior monks shouting something about giant serpents.

He then bent over, catching his breath, oblivious to the looks that the elders directed at him.

“What did you say, brother?”

“Out there… vision… snake… primordial destroyer.”

One of the ancient legends of Cthonia spoke of a serpent beast with the head and wings of an eagle, which hid in trees to disguise its true nature and tempted lone unwary travellers away from their path – widely considered to be an analogy for sin luring humankind from righteousness. The serpent would then wrap them in its coils and feast upon their bodies, eviscerating them and laying its eggs in their ribcage – widely considered to be an example of the disgusting things that Nature would do to you when you weren’t looking.

“And you are asking us to overlook the fact that you have interrupted our sacred victuals, because you have seen a vision of a great serpent in the building?”

The monk said that he was, pleaded for forgiveness, and asked if someone might mind taking a look at it.

“If you are uniquely privileged to have seen this apparition, brother, then perhaps a consultation with the leaders of the Order might be best. Show us where you were afflicted.”

The trembling brother led a procession of elderly monks outside, through the cloister and along the corridor to the tiny North Chapel. The door, normally closed so those inside could meditate undisturbed, was set ajar by a large serpent’s tail. A silvery purple in colour, it extended a few yards into the hallway before tapering into a point. The party of ascetics stopped short.

“Fathers, this is where I saw the vision,” the monk explained. “I am still moved by the Holy Emperor’s power! I see it there!”

The elders exchanged concerned looks, but their concern wasn’t for the sanity of the original visionary.

“…can anyone else see that?” The Abbot asked eventually.

“I can, Father,” confirmed one of his subordinates.

“I can as well,” said another.

They all agreed, along with the perplexed brother, that they could see the serpent. Moreover, the vision looked very real – and showed no signs of disappearing.

“I thought these things were supposed to be ephemeral figures made of light?” someone said.

“Aren’t they meant to go away?”

“According to the scriptures, the Holy Emperor only reveals His divine portents to one person at a time….”

“And forces of evil strong enough to produce such manifestations would never dare to enter this place….”

The tail twitched gently, and their discourse stalled for a moment.

“What do we do, Father?”

“It is obvious,” the Abbott declared, though nobody shared this particular opinion. “The vision of a tail must be connected to a vision of a beast. We follow it to its source, and our faith shall prevail – we can interrogate this creature, and banish it if necessary.”

Various mumbles of agreement greeted him, and hands were tightened on relics. The Abbott led the way, climbing carefully over the scaly mound. It was noted that, for a vision, it certainly felt very solid.

The chapel was crowded with loops of serpent and they huddled in one corner, observing the (incredibly corporeal) vision. Shining violet coils led up to the frontal altar, and disappeared into the form of a hooded figure standing with its back to them, clad in one of the habits worn by members of the Order.

“Temptation can be found to tug at the immortal soul of every man,” the Abbott whispered, making several holy signs, which were frantically echoed by his followers, “even here.”

“Is this what the vision is telling us, Father?”

“Yes, my son. You see, the body of the snake transforms into the body of the man, poised as we see each other every day….” He stood upright, and smacked a nearby stretch of scales with his bony hand. “What more do you have to reveal to us, foul creature?!”

“I’d rather appreciate not being called _foul_ , if you don’t mind….”

The figure lowered its hood, revealing a fall of hair the non-colour of moonlight.

Four arms unfolded from the unfastened robe, ending in slender hands tipped with sharp nails. The serpentine form extended only as far as the waist; above that, the creature had the torso of a man. A very well-known man.

“Is this still a vision?” the younger monk asked. “Because that looks a lot like -.”

“Fear not, my dear. I’m quite real.”

“Quiet, you!” the Abbott snapped. He gestured to the general state of the chapel – filled, as it was, with snake. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Call it a miracle,” the prince said dismissively, gliding closer to them and provoking a collective backward step. “I find this form more convenient sometimes.”

“Convenient for what, vile creature?”

“Again with the pejoratives. _Really._ I thank you for the, ah… hospitality that you’ve shown me so far – under the orders of the Emperor, of course – but I’ve grown weary of this life of deprivation. Asceticism isn’t for me, I’m afraid. So forgive me, Father, if I decide to take some time away.”

The Abbott was speechless, torn between rage, fear and staring at the prince’s daemonic body.

The creature smiled. “I thought as much. An existence of denial and turnips has, alas, proven too much for my delicate senses. So farewell, for now.”

He slithered towards the door, and none of them had the means or the sense required to stop him as he fitted his expansive frame through the entrance to the chapel.

\----

“Come on, Ferrus – we’re leaving.”

Ferrus dug at the ground and nipped at one of the prince’s arms.

“Don’t be like that; I _had_ to use this form. Otherwise they’d just leap on me and wrestle me to the floor, and this is hardly the time or the place for that….”

The horse allowed himself to be removed from the stable and broke into a heavy trot across the courtyard, flicking his tail and looking back over his shoulder.

“I’m coming, darling – I can’t move as fast as you.”

The prince wound across the flagstones and joined Ferrus out of the gate. There was little of the commotion one might expect from such an escape, and that pleased him. He still had his skills, it seemed, despite months of incarceration in such a dreary setting.

As he moved, his body warped and shifted – arms halved, horns vanished and the great serpentine tail surged and shrank and split into a pair of legs. He stumbled, cursed, and kept running until he could grab at Ferrus’s shoulder and swing himself onto the horse’s back.

“And before you ask; no, I don’t know where we’re going….”

\----

“He did what?” Vulkan wasn’t sure whether to laugh or look upset.

“Your horse, Forge-Master. It’s missing ….”

“He stole F- he stole it?”

“My sincerest apologies, for this….”

“It’s alright,” Vulkan said, letting his smile break out. He couldn’t help it. The image of the two of them, fleeing across the barren heathland in their multi-limbed splendour, was one of beauty to him. “If you may provide me with another, at the end of my stay -.”

“Of course, sir.”

“- then I’ll forgive the loss of Ferrus, though it’s inconvenient. The prince, of course, is not my responsibility. How did he escape, anyway?”

The senior brother chosen to break the news to him muttered something.

“What?”

“Nobody can remember. By which I mean -.”

“Let me guess,” Vulkan interrupted, “anyone who got in his way is now highly confused and vaguely happy, though they can’t for the life of them recall why.”

“Well… yes.”

“Nobody is harmed, though the prince could tear them apart with his bare hands. They all report the same details: a serpent, a pair of eyes and an overwhelming feeling of purple silk.”

“You’re right.” The monk sighed and leaned on the wall wearily. “You know him, obviously. His corruption spreads like wildfire and he was able to seduce the most disciplined minds to his cause. I don’t know how we’ll explain this to the Lord Emperor.”

“Quite honestly,” Vulkan said, “you could probably say that the prince is being his usual self, and our Lord Emperor would understand perfectly.”

\----

Lorgar loved the peace of the night, where voices were hushed and the stars smiled down on you whether you were awake or asleep. He could lie and think, and mutter to himself – words of comfort, words of poetry. Mostly, planning how to escape. He was cold, and hungry, and could feel his spirit being blunted, his mental acumen being eroded, by constant manual labour. He wanted very much to discuss this with his father.

Already, he had observed the daily business of those around him; their dull routines might give him the chance to slip away, if a chance presented itself. Not everyone was vigilant all the time. There would be some opening that his keen mind would detect, and if he ran, he could be far away before anyone noticed. Or he could feign illness and absent himself, then flee in good time when their backs were turned. It would be difficult. Perhaps he would have to utilise his abilities – although too much of that, and he’d be too exhausted to go anywhere. Short of controlling everyone on the entire site (an all-but-impossible task), there was no simple way to get out.

After lying awake for so long, the need to relieve himself was too pressing to ignore. He folded back the sad excuse for a blanket which lay ineffectually across his legs, and got up. Nobody was disturbed from their dreams as he located his shoes, and some outer clothing, and pulled the blanket around his shoulders for good measure – he had to go outdoors, in a wooden shack a good hundred yards from the workers’ dormitories, and though the day had been sweet and tranquil with spring, the temperature had dropped with the sun and there was a slight chill breeze. Lorgar bundled up, and ventured into the cold.

Moonlight was enough for him to find his way, and once his business was done, he tugged closed the door of the shack behind him (not that it would help the draughts inside) and stood for a moment, shivering slightly, shoes coated with glistening damp from the grass, gazing up at the heavens. He mapped some constellations, and a couple of celestial bodies (worlds, Magnus said, transient worlds just like their own, and of course he believed because Magnus said it, but didn’t know how anyone could be so sure) then fixed his eyes on the low structure where he was to return. Everyone else was asleep. Even several of the guard dogs – posted to ensure that no light-fingered miscreants made off with supplies or tools – had lain on the ground, snoring in tandem with their masters. Lorgar reached out and found the others, curious bestial minds, and dropped them as well. It amused him to do so. During the day, the mangy beasts would growl at him, and their hackles would rise, and he knew it was because they sensed something they didn’t like or understand about him, something _wrong_. He couldn’t put them all to sleep during the day. It would make escape easier, for certain, but someone was bound to notice.

He let go of the dogs – they would stay that way until morning – and breathed in the silence, after the nonsense chatter of their minds. Starting to walk, it occurred to him how truly _quiet_ it was, how he could walk undisturbed, walk and walk….

Lorgar halted halfway back to his hard and uncomfortable bed, and pulled the blanket tighter around him. He could certainly go until morning. A few hours, and then light would come. And then… he would go to the Palace. That he knew.

He would go to the Palace to see his father.


	20. In which plans are planned and Magnus is less useful than he wants to be

Horus knelt in silent meditation, his hands clasped around a string of beads clad in felt. They made no noise when rattled, and his bare feet could hardly produce sound on the worn wooden floor unless he stamped or kicked with excessive force. He tried not to breathe too loudly, either – although maintaining a connection with divine powers required effort that stressed even a body and mind of his size.

He only hoped that nobody in the Order Taciturn had the necessary psychic strength to realise that his contemplative prayer to various minor deities was anything but.

“He took off with Ferrus,” Magnus said – except he didn’t, but Horus found it easier to think of it as speech and ‘hear’. “They haven’t got to me yet, and I can’t guide them very far. Ferrus has almost zero magical ability, and our brother is too easily distracted.”

“And the monastery?” Horus asked, in his head, biting his lips to prevent actual words coming out.

“Completely intact. Those within it are mostly unaffected, though a few will need some close counsel in order to… overcome the memory of their experiences. Such stimulus is not suited to ascetics, as you can imagine.”

Horus smiled, knowing that Magnus could effectively see his emotions. “And how are you?”

“I grow weary of this tower. There aren’t enough books and I’m picking apart the wards thread by thread.”

“So what’s stopping you escaping?”

Magnus harrumphed awkwardly. “Physical guards. They’ll just stab me if I try.”

“You can overcome a few pesky humans, surely -.”

“They’re not humans. Some sort of clockwork automaton, with only the barest hint of power keeping them together. Idle and inert most of the time. Nothing I can get a handle on. I could try to blow them apart but they’re heavily built and there are many.”

“How many?”

“Dozens. Perturabo is furious. They’re his design and Father didn’t tell him they’d been retained all these years.”

A couple of brothers joined Horus at the narrow bench, resting their elbows and knees on cushions. A shiver went down his spine; he hadn’t even sensed them approach. He had to rely too much on his keen predatory senses in this noiseless place, and it tired him sometimes.

“I’m sure he’s due for an escape attempt soon as well.”

“Most likely, if he can manage it. I haven’t managed to place him exactly, though. He doesn’t shine as brightly as you. Look, Horus, I -.”

“I heard something about a labyrinth, maybe -.”

“Horus, I have to go. The conduit I’m using is near to collapse and I don’t want to push him – push it too far.”

“Him? What? You’re using someone to get past the wards?”

“I am,” Magnus’s voice was fading, “someone with a connection to both of us and untapped reserves of psychic strength….”

“Magnus!” Horus cried and his whole body jolted in a spasm of backlash. The connection was cut; he threw his exclamation at a solid wall and it rebounded. He sighed, still smarting, and made the sign for ‘sneeze’ to banish the suspicious looks of his peers. They nodded wordlessly and returned to their own contemplations.

Horus rose and headed for the colonnade around the garden. He couldn’t stay still any longer, and the heavy rain outside would mean he could hear _something_ at least.

\----

Sanguinius slammed back into reality with a shock that felt like smashing a wall of ice. He jerked up from his kneeling position and immediately fell down again, stopping his nose an inch from the floor with clenched fists. His wings drooped over and he found no strength there to hold them up, breaths coming in shudders.

Magnus had warned him that this would be extremely taxing, but he’d insisted anyway. If he couldn’t talk to Horus himself, he wanted to help.

Finding the weakest part of the wards around the palace had taken the longest – they didn’t officially exist and nobody would talk about them. Who wanted to acknowledge the possibility of magic strong enough to threaten the Emperor? But he was in the centre of their hold, and also provided the nexus for their power. It radiated off him in thick suffocating waves, palpable even to a rough-hewn tribesman like Sanguinius, and only here in a far tower could it be overcome by Magnus’s own sorcery.

Added to that were the bindings on the place that held Magnus himself, plus the sheer distance between him and his intended target. And the fact that Horus had to be shouted at very loudly, in psychic terms, to get him to listen.

Sanguinius flopped over to one side and let the carpet welcome him.

\----

“Still in here?” the prince hovered before the desk in the library.

“Hm?” Sanguinius looked up from the parchment. “Oh, yes. Your history is fascinating.”

“Really?” Roboute chuckled and went to stand beside him. “I know that many would consider it terribly dull… although I think it’s important. To examine the events of the past, so we can avoid repeating them.”

“Of course.” Sanguinius looked at him the way he always did, coy and interested. Horus would have understood. Horus would have called him a tease, and he would retort that teasing was promising without following through, and then they would follow through, against any available surface. But Roboute had never caught on to even the most outrageous flirting (the kind that his mother would have scolded him for, because a chieftain’s son should at least have some _dignity_ ). Perhaps he had no interest in men at all. Or – and Sanguinius both suspected and hoped that this was most likely – he was extremely polite and a more than a little oblivious.

“I think the laws of inheritance are of interest,” he said mildly. Roboute bent over the book and the angel brushed him gently with one wing. “A legitimate heir of a male ruler only has to be given to a woman by him, and then be born in the royal chambers. They don’t have to be married at all.”

“An insurance policy,” Roboute explained, “against an empress who could not bear children… or an emperor whose consort was another man. If the ruler is female, the same applies… she only has to birth the heir in the royal chamber.”

“Is that why Lord Russ has no claim to the throne? Because he was born in the forest?”

The prince’s back stiffened. “Yes. His father is our Emperor but his mother was an unknown woman from the north… how did you know that?”

“I heard things,” Sanguinius said with a shrug, omitting the fact that he’d heard plenty of things about the family from the exiled princes, most of which were defamatory in nature. “Also, it seems that the child born of the eldest of the Emperor’s heirs becomes the next in line, even before their parent takes to the throne.”

“That is true – your command of our written language is impressive.”

“What if Horus were to father a child?”

That made Roboute freeze entirely.

“Dorn is the Crown Prince,” he said quietly. “Remember that.”

“But….”

“I know you spent a lot of time with – with my other siblings. And I know they command a lot of power, in their domain. But here their influence is meaningless and their names are rarely spoken. They are traitors, and they were excommunicated by the Emperor.”

“Horus is still the eldest,” Sanguinius said. “And nowhere is it written in these books that an heir is made illegitimate simply by the wishes of the Emperor. They have to be frail of body or mind, incapable of taking command, and that decision must be made as they reach their age of emerging… the point where they become an adult. For Horus, none of this is true. He was declared a traitor, but what does that mean? Only a person whose views are opposite those of the Emperor. Unless he was tried and punished for harming the Emperor – which he wasn’t – there is no meaning to the word. Many Emperors have died and given way to sons and daughters they disapproved of while they lived.”

The prince’s shoulders sagged, and he leaned his hands on the desk wearily.

“I know,” he said. “You’re correct. There’s no legal precedent for it at all… and that weighs on me, because there would be no way the Imperium would accept it, if they knew as well. But you have to understand – my father made the right decision. My brother – Horus… can never be allowed to rule. He and the others had to be scrubbed away, forgotten; it was in the name of peace. Dorn will inherit and he will be just and wise, if perhaps a little dull.” The shadow of a smile crossed his face, then disappeared. “Please try to appreciate the position we were put in – that they put us in. Starting with Horus, we watched the corruption spread, and… my father was right. It’s difficult to forgive him entirely, I know, but he did what had to be done.”

“You’re a clever man, Roboute,” Sanguinius said after a moment. He closed the book carefully and set it aside, with a scrap of cloth marking his place. “You must know I love Horus.”

“I had noticed. I… am sorry for the pain we must have caused by separating you.”

“And, if I tried to restore him to power, you would try to stop me?”

“I would.”

The angel nodded. “As you should. And… I have one more question for you, which you are not forced to answer.”

“Is it about politics? Because -.”

“Will you visit my bedchamber this evening?”

“I…” the prince looked away, studying a nearby shelf vacantly. “I am soon to be engaged, to someone very suitable that Father -.”

“I don’t mind that. Unless you have a law about such things….”

“We don’t,” Roboute whispered almost inaudibly.

“Or unless you want to save your first for them. I understand. I shan’t proposition you if your arrangements are like that; the customs seem to be different here, and none of these books really cover such matters….”

“No, I – no, it’s fine. Not for – I mean, I can – with – yes. Yes, I’ll come by. We can discuss the finer points of royal ascension.”

He left with a hurried apology and Sanguinius rose to place the book back on its shelf, hiding a smile.


	21. In which grass is eaten and more plans are planned

“Have you ever considered that Magnus might not have the books you want?” Vulkan said.

Fulgrim woke startled and hit his head on Ferrus’s belly. He smoothed his hair, his face daring Vulkan to say anything about being taken by surprise.

Ferrus ripped out another clump of grass and munched. Vulkan’s horse pondered briefly before joining him.

“He said they were in the palace, _blacksmith._ ”

“I know, F- your highness, but might the Lord Emperor have neglected to include them when your brother was locked in that tower? They might still be inside the walls of his fortress.”

“Are you saying you can get them for me?”

“No, your highness. Why would I? Oh, and I’m the Forge-Master, by the way.”

“Fascinating,” Fulgrim said wryly, and hauled himself upright using Ferrus’s flank for support. The horse turned to rub an amicable cheek along his back. “You’ve replaced my darling.”

“Hopefully temporarily,” Vulkan said carefully, knowing it was a dangerous subject. “Look, I…” he glanced around at the endless greenery. “You’re in the middle of a forest. All I’m saying is that I’ll help you two get back into the palace, I have room for both… and help you find Magnus and the books you need. If you’re willing.”

The prince was staring back at him with a delicately arched eyebrow.

“…your highness.”

“Since you offered so _nicely_ , I’ll take you up. You’ve done a good job of looking after Ferrus so far. And Father will be looking for us. And I’d _hate_ to cause any more inconvenience for those poor monks.”

Vulkan bit back a remark about inconvenience and ascetic lifestyles.

“Well then, back to the palace. Or to the forge, I suppose.”

“A place you’re already familiar with, sire?”

“Oh, of course.” He was in sufficient good humour to wink at Vulkan, which was a relief. “The tales I could tell you….”

It seemed to Vulkan that those tales would make somewhat uncomfortable hearing, with their subject idly cropping grass nearby.

\----

She leaned over to try and nibble on him, and Ferrus brushed her away with an angry whicker. They were walking the same path, and would be for miles; there was nothing that could be done about that. But she invaded his space and he took pains to try and make her see that that was unwelcome. She wanted to draw close and rub their shoulders together, and he was concerned that their feet might tangle and they might fall. Then, with them rolling around together on the earth, who knew what she might get up to?

He ignored her and avoided her eyes, which was easier said than done. She went for another playful nip.

“Stop that!” the exclamation came from Vulkan, who was as scandalised by her behaviour as Ferrus. He pulled her head away quite firmly, and she sulked. Ferrus breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry, my friend. It appears she’s getting frisky, and I can’t do anything about that.”

“Which of us are you apologising to?” the prince asked, with ill humour.

“Why, my lord – are you jealous?” Vulkan kept his remark light, and prayed that he’d said the right thing.

“Not at all.” The prince’s mouth twisted, in a way that meant Vulkan was safe. “I’ll never have to rival anyone for Ferrus’s affections.” He stroked the horse’s neck. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

“I can’t say I envy you, your highness – having your beloved in such a form, most of the time. It must be difficult for you… especially as….”

“What?”

Something in his tone had caught the prince’s attention.

“Well, my lord, you know.” Vulkan coughed and made a gesture. “I just thought, with the way that close relationships are….”

“Are you meaning to imply, perhaps, that I enjoy intimate relations with my horse?”

“Now you put it like that,” Vulkan said, “yes. That’s what people would think, at any rate. I don’t claim to believe it! But… that’s what they might suppose….”

He saw Ferrus’s eye turn to look at him, and would have given anything to know what his friend was thinking.

“And they would be wrong,” the prince replied frostily. “I may be the very embodiment of depravity, at least to the people of Cthonia – but you work with horses, Forge-master; those that work, hunt and ride to war. You must have _seen_ the endowment on most stallions. I have no desire whatsoever for such a… such an _intrusion_.” He paused contemplatively, gazing into the distance. “There may be those among us that would be willing to undertake the challenge – and to be honest, I admire them. And also pity them. To want to, quite literally, go to those lengths….”

“I don’t know anyone like that,” Vulkan muttered, his face heating.

“You don’t _think_ you do, my dear. But there are a few, though in the interests of shame they rarely make themselves known. And even then, it’s usually posthumous.”

Stoic as he was, Vulkan couldn’t hide a wince.

“Oh yes, there have been deaths. And visits to the apothecary, under some guise – but I ask you this: who would ever be cleaning a stable in the nude? Or slip and fall in such a way, under a horse in such a condition….”

Vulkan regretted having brought the subject up.

\----

“But have you thought,” The daemon prince asked, “that they might not want their souls to be saved? That eternal torment might be a reasonable end… or that they’d consider themselves martyred for the sins of others?”

The abbess considered.

“I would say that, without some sort of divine confirmation – or an enormously dramatic happenstance – it would be unbelievably arrogant to declare oneself a bearer of sin, destined to suffer eternally because it’s somehow _necessary_ to let that happen. The God-Emperor’s grace should be for everyone.”

“Isn’t it equally arrogant to tell people that your belief system is the only one that offers salvation?”

“That may be true,” she said with a smile, “but in the end, faith is all we have. No messengers have returned from the afterlife bearing a comprehensive report of exactly _who_ resides there and their individual affiliation.”

“The Order Nocturne makes a different claim.”

“I hesitate to cast doubt on anyone’s beliefs – as that could be causing harm – but the Order Nocturne operates differently. Their approach to the veneration of the God-Emperor and their chosen spirits is… quite a way removed from ours. We tend to look to the path of the individual through life, and how that may be made virtuous… they spend much of their time attempting to communicate with the dead.”

“You say _attempting_ , my lady.”

“I’ve never witnessed their rituals myself,” she admitted rather stiffly, “and so have no idea of the success rate. Or indeed, of what ‘success’ constitutes for them.”

He chuckled, and resumed his repairs on the bench. She sipped at her drink.

“Will you be replacing the carving details?”

Angron sighed. “I fear that’s beyond my skills. I know craftsmen who could do it, though.”

“Would you be permitted to bring outsiders in?”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged, pushing on the seat to test its strength. “If I’m having a good day. If not, then….”

“Then Father Godfrey would fear that you would raise a militia instead, and reduce the abbey to ruins?”

“Look at this bench,” he said firmly. “If I’m having a bad day, does it look like I need a militia?”


End file.
